


i saw the devil this morning (in the mirror)

by doodlingstories



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Peter Parker, Canonical Character Death, Expect slow updates, Grief/Mourning, I don't know what possessed me to write this, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Parent Tony Stark, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Recovery, Redemption, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vigilantism, aunt may is depressed after ben's death, dark!Peter, im also a slow writer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-29
Updated: 2019-03-26
Packaged: 2019-07-04 05:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 22,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15834846
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doodlingstories/pseuds/doodlingstories
Summary: He tilts his head up so he can look Dennis in the eyes, “Should’ve thought about the consequences before you killed my uncle.”When Peter snaps his neck, the sickening snap echoes in the alleyway.or; Peter Parker changes for the worse after his uncle gets killed, and Tony is determined to help a kid he doesn't know





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> title is from jaymes young - i'll be good  
> (it's a good song, i highly recommend)

The darkness conceals him, up where he clings to the wall. 

Peter Parker has never been a particularly patient boy. He has always been a restless soul, always on the move. This night, though, it’s different.

( _He’s_ different.) 

(But he won’t think about that now. He’ll think about it later, when the deed is done.)

He waits there, in the pitch black alley, patient like never before. 

Suddenly, he hears footsteps. He hears what he’s been waiting for. The person, a blonde man in his mid-twenties with a tattoo on his wrist, strolls into the alley with his chest puffed up, confidence on display. 

The tattoo, Peter doesn’t see - he just knows it’s there.

The man sighs, impatient, unlike Peter right now, and taps his foot against the ground.

The blonde man grumbles, “Damn kids these days... never on time…”

Peter feels his lips quirk upwards without his permission.

Peter observes quietly, eyes on the man as he takes out his burner phone and taps it aggressively. The man places the phone against his ear, foot still tapping lightly against the ground.

The phone rings three times before the callee responds to his call.

Peter can hear the person responding to the man’s call, though only faintly due to the distance between himself and the phone.

“ _S’up man_?”

“Kid ain’t ‘ere yet. You sure kid said the alley below Bedell Street?”

“ _Am I sure- yeah, I’m sure you shithead, boy wrote it down ‘n everythin’_ ” 

“Aight, but if he ain’t show up in five I’mma leave.”

“ _Do whatever you wanna do, man, I’m just the messenger_.”

“‘Kay, later.”

“ _Later_.”

Then, a beep as he hangs up.

 _This is my queue_ , Peter thinks. He lets himself have a moment to reconsider his choices, but knows he’s only stalling in doing so. Peter made his choice the day his uncle died, after all. 

Peter often thinks, _what would Uncle Ben say about this?_  

Maybe he’d list all the reasons why Peter shouldn’t do what he’s doing. Maybe he’d tell Peter to be better. _Do_ better. Maybe he’d tell Peter to think about the consequences.

(One thing is certain. He can’t tell Peter anything now. Not when he’s five feet under, rotting, bleeding into the soil in which he lays.)

Peter locks his thoughts away, and breathes in before he jumps from the wall. He lands on his feet silently, right behind the blonde man.

The blonde man doesn’t notice him until Peter clears his throat, making his presence known.

The man jumps, and seems to reach for his pockets, cursing loudly in his thick accent, “Jesus fuck- oh, it’s you! Nearly gave me a heart attack, ‘s what ya did. Peter, was it?” 

Peter stays silent. He watches the man intently, watches for any sign of fear. So far, he doesn’t really seem phased by his abrupt appearance. Peter guesses that there are some advantages to being fourteen and baby-faced, after all.

The man takes Peter’s silence as nervousness; or, so it seems, because he says, “First time buyin’, Peter? No need to be nervous, lil’ guy.”

Peter nods as a response to his question, luring him into believing he was in control of the situation. _God, what a fool_ , Peter thinks as he watches the man walk closer to him.

“Are ye nervous ‘bout my nickname, kiddo?” 

Peter nods again, this time putting a little more effort into looking nervous. 

The man grumbles, “Don’t be fooled by my nickname - a friend o’ mine thought it’d be funny, ‘s all. ‘Spike’ ain’t my real name - ‘s kinda stupid, don't cha think?”

Peter looks down at his feet, and bites his lip slightly. He softly kicks a rock on the ground, and looks up at Spike, his head lowered slightly.

Spike continues with his spiel, and in an attempt to make Peter feel more comfortable with him, he tells Peter his real name, “In fact, call me Dennis. I don’t usually-” 

“I know.” he mumbles, brow raised slightly. His blood is pumping, rushing through his veins, even though he’s currently standing still. 

“Huh?” Dennis Carradine blinks. 

Peter feels a small smile emerge on his own face when he tells him loud and clear, “I said, I know. I already know your name, Dennis Carradine.” 

“Ye- _what_? How do you-” Dennis doesn’t get to finish his sentence. 

Peter slams Dennis into the wall behind him. Peter grits his teeth, because he’s struggling to cover his mouth whilst pinning him to the wall. Peter lets the hand that’s on Dennis’ mouth fall, and Dennis opens his mouth to scream. Peter is quicker, though, and webs his mouth shut. 

For a moment, it looks like he can’t breathe. Peter watches him struggle slightly, before he sighs and pokes a hole in the webbing to let him breathe. 

Peter watches his chest heave slightly, watches as he feels relief from being allowed to breathe.

 _Too bad that relief is gonna be short-lived_ , Peter thinks grimly.

(Short-lived, like his uncle.)

“Please!” he begs for mercy, though his words are a mere whisper due to his mouth being mostly webbed up. Tears are streaming down his face, and his trembling is making him appear weaker than before.

Peter doesn’t care, though. Peter takes a step back, only to web Dennis’ entire body onto the wall. He makes sure he won’t be getting anywhere by tugging slightly on the webbing, and then proceeds to place his hands on the wall by the sides of his head. 

He tilts his head up so he can look Dennis in the eyes, “Should’ve thought about the consequences before you killed my uncle.”

When Peter snaps his neck, the sickening snap echoes in the alleyway.

  
  


 

Peter doesn’t bother with subtlety when he enters his apartment. He walks in, closes the door, hangs up his jacket and takes off his shoes. He goes on with his evening as if he had just been to the store.

(As if he hadn’t just murdered a man in cold blood.) 

He can hear the TV playing from May’s room faintly in the background as he makes his way to the kitchen. His acquired powers didn’t just come with positives, after all. He had to eat much more than the average human, and knew that if he didn’t, he’d probably die.

(Die, just like Dennis. Just like his uncle.) 

When he enters the kitchen, he immediately spots the food container on the kitchen counter. He should feel happy when he sees food - instead, he feels his heart sink, thanks to the fact that it’s in a container.

A container on the counter meant that May hadn’t cooked that day. A container on the counter meant that May hadn’t left her room that day. A container on the counter meant that she’d given in to the melancholy taking over her life that day. 

“Where have you been?” Peter jumps at her voice, taken by surprise. He turns to look at her, eyes wide, and he finds himself saying nothing for a moment before he shakes the surprise off and he answers her.

“Just out.”

She’s leaning against the door frame, hands crossed across her chest. May looks at him with a worried look in her eyes. It seems like she’s about to confront him about his late charades, that she’s done with his actions the last few months, when she opens her mouth as if to say something. 

But, like always, her depression takes over, consumes her whole, and makes her retreat. She sighs heavily, a sad (fake) smile on her face when she says, “Alright. Emily brought us some dinner-”

“Yeah, I know. I’ve seen it.”

May closes her mouth. They seem to have a voiceless conversation, and her eyes speak more to Peter than her words ever could.

He pretends not to notice the streaks of dried tears on her cheeks.

(It’s not as if the streaks weren’t a constant on her face, these days.)

(They were always there, a reminder of what their family had lost.)

She’d never been able to read Peter quite as good as he’d been able to read her. It was both a curse an a blessing. Tonight, it’s a blessing, Peter decides. He’s pretty sure she doesn’t condone murder, after all.

To make her less suspicious of tonight, though, he decides to give her a false explanation. He swallows, and lies through his teeth, “I was just at the library. Read a few books on Arc Reactor technology, thought it’d be interesting.”

His lie is innocent enough, and luckily it does the work, because he sees May’s tense shoulders fall into a more relaxed pose.

“Oh. Good. Good, good, good… reading is good, I’m glad you- you enjoy it enough to go to the library,” she looks at the clock on the wall, and swallows.

Peter knows what’s coming, when she looks at the clock like that. 

(He knows what’s coming, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.)

“I’m gonna head to bed.” she finally says, but all he hears is, _I’m gonna head to bed_ _again_. And it’s the word _again_ that resonates with him, though the word is never said by May.

(It just hangs there in the air, like a small insect, too small to kill, but too big to ignore.)

( _Again_. _Such an ugly word_ , Peter thinks. He lost a parent _again_. He’s gonna lose another parent _again_ if he’s not careful. _Again and again_ , the world takes, but never gives.)

  
  
  


After, when May has gone to bed and has fallen asleep, Peter climbs out of his window, container in his hand, and crawls up to the rooftop. He sits there, some days (most days), thinking about his uncle. 

He sits down on the ledge, and places the tupperware next to him. He swings his feet lazily, looking over his neighborhood. 

Peter doesn’t even notice the rain that’s pouring down on him before he feels his hair cling to his face. Unbidden, memories of Ben pop into his head, like they often do when he lets himself think for too long. 

 

( _“Why the sad mood, Pete?” Ben asks, frowning slightly. Peter snivels, “My team didn’t win today,” tears stream down Peter’s face, “We trained so hard, and we failed… It’s just so… it’s just so unfair!”_

_“Oh, kiddie.” Ben wraps his arms around Peter, and tells him, “Listen, Petey. Life is like… well, it’s like a very long season; some you win, some you lose… and it’s good to lose. It makes the winning all the sweeter.”_

_He rubs his back, and continues, “Maybe next time, hm?”_  

_“Y-yeah. Next time,” Peter wipes his tears away with his sleeve, and gives his uncle a wobbly smile._

_There’s a soft, fine and melodious tapping against the window that makes Ben turn his head towards the window._  

_“Huh. Would you look at that. It’s raining!” he exclaims, before chuckling slightly._

_“Well, I’ll say. Your mood is affecting the weather again, kiddie. You sure you’re not hiding a superpower from me?”_

_And as Peter giggles, the dark clouds above seem to lighten, rain softly disappearing along with Peter’s sadness._ )

 

Peter feels water trickling at his eye, and wipes it away.

(It’s not a tear. It’s just the rain, pouring down on his face.)

He wipes at his eyes once more, despite the fact that it’s raining and that he knows it’s for naught.

(No, it’s not a tear. Not at all) 

His mind goes through memories of Ben like a movie reel; it goes on and on, and doesn’t seem to stop. 

 

( _“Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben! Uncle Ben!” Peter squeals as soon as he enters his home, letter in hand as he runs into his uncles arms. His uncle lets out a small laugh, before saying, “You seem happy. Care to share the happiness?”_

_Peter grins, lets go of his uncle, and holds up the letter for his uncle to read, “I got in! The scholarship - they accepted me, Midtown High accepted me! And that’s where Ned’s parents are sending him, so I won’t be alone in high school anymore, Uncle Ben!”_

_Ben’s mouth falls open for a fleeting moment, before he abruptly closes is and coughs, “Oh my- that is- MAY! OUR BOY GOT INTO MIDTOWN ON A SCHOLARSHIP!” he yells, a small laugh escaping his lips._

_Peter laughs as well, and soon after, May bursts into the room in her towel, big-eyed and mouth wide open in shock, “You got in?”_

_“Yeah, our boy got in! Christ, I’m glad you inherited your fathers intelligence - god knows I don’t have it,” Ben jokes, and tosses his arm around Peter, giving him a slight side hug._

_The conversation turns into one of celebration when they begin asking him what he wanted as a gift for his achievement._

_The sun is shining bright outside, but Ben is too caught up in Peter’s achievement to notice. Peter notices, though, and for a brief moment, he believes his uncle. He believes his mood affects the weather, if only for a second, before he shakes the thought off and goes back to celebrating with his family._ )

 

Peter is shuddering now, the cold wrapping itself around his tired form.

(He’s not shuddering because of his memories. It’s just the cold water, seeping through his clothes.)

Peter’s brain always racks through the nicer memories, before they end on the last one, the last memory Peter had of him. The memory that never seemed to escape him, no matter how hard Peter tried.

  
( _BANG_  
  
_The world moves slowly when he turns to the source of the sound. He hears a jingle, metal against asphalt, and sees the bullet shells on the street, bouncing, jingling, up, down, slowly losing momentum._

_BANG_

_The sound is explosive, and Peter feels it. He feels the sound, felt it the first time and now feels it the second time when it rings in the air._

_BANG_  
  
_"Oh my god!" The voice of a bystander says, though it feels as though they're talking through water._

 _They seem distant. Distant, like the thought death at a young age._  
  
_"Uncle Ben?" Tears are pooling in the rims of his eyes._  
  
_His breath hitches more and more as he walks closer to where his uncle now lays dead on the street._

 _The closer he gets, the clearer he sees the corpse of his uncle._  
  
_His hitches turn into uncontrollable ugly sobs._  
  
_"Someone call 911!"_  
  
_"Oh, dear."_  
  
_"That poor boy."_  
  
_"Is he dead?"_

_The skies above turn dark. When the rain pours, Peter feels nothing. He is numb, and so is his heart._

_When he gets home, and the police question him about the blonde man that had killed his uncle, his thoughts turn dark. He thinks of murder; of murdering the blonde man that had taken away his last living blood relative._

_The thought seems so sweet to Peter, that he makes himself a promise. A promise to make the man that had taken away his uncle pay for his crime. Peter knew he’d follow through with his self-promise._

_Peter always kept his promises, after all._ )

 

Peter looks up at the sky, and thinks of his uncle’s words. _You were wrong, Uncle Ben_ , Peter thinks idly, when he notices that the sky is clear of clouds, only a faint tint of orange and pink painting the sky whilst the sun sets.  
  
(Ben’s statement no longer holds any weight, not when all he is is thunder and storms, reflecting the war he feels inside, and the weather outside is bleak and white.)

When Peter finally decides to go back inside, the clouds turn grey.

  
  
  


Later, when Peter lays in his bed, he thinks about Dennis Carradine. He thinks about how Dennis had begged for mercy, cried in his last moments. He almost feels a little bad about it, until another thought creeps up into his brain, and it grows and grows until he can’t hear anything else.

_Yeah, you wanted mercy. But why should I have given you mercy, when you gave my Uncle Ben none?_

Peter finds that he feels no regret for taking a life, that night - and that, is perhaps the scariest thought of all.


	2. two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter’s career as a vigilante begins with a loud bang and with bleeding hearts.
> 
> (Coincidentally, that’s exactly how his uncle had died.)
> 
> (Bang, bang, bang, and you’re dead, bleeding from both your abdomen and heart, whilst your orphaned nephew holds you close.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for the chapter: non-explicit child abuse of the sexual kind

_THE DAILY GLOBE_

 

_NEW VIGILANTE SPOTTED IN QUEENS_

_written by Edward Brock_

_The new vigilante, often referred to as Spider-Man by the general public due to his spider-like tendencies and abilities, was seen late last night by an alleyway near the Rockaway Beach where a well-known drug lord was found dead later that night. The drug lord in question, Jake Olson, was well known for selling drugs to underaged kids, and has reportedly been off the radar for the past 3 years._

_The police notes that, “Spider-Man is armed and dangerous”. Armed and dangerous indeed - but is he really a menace to the public, or is he just a menace to the criminals residing in Queens?_

_If you have any new information about the Spider-Man, please feel free to contact either us at The Daily Globe, or the police. Please note that if you come in contact with us first, we will note the police._

 

Peter’s career as a vigilante begins with a loud bang and with bleeding hearts. 

(Coincidentally, that’s exactly how his uncle had died.)

( _Bang, bang, bang_ , and you’re dead, bleeding from both your abdomen and heart, whilst your orphaned nephew holds you close.) 

His career doesn’t _actually_ start with a loud bang and bleeding hearts. Not literally, per see, but his career as a vigilante does happen quite abruptly. Most things in Peter’s life seemed to happen that way; abrupt, sudden, and too fast to process.  

(The death of his parents. The death of his uncle. His aunts depression.

The blood of another man on his hands.)

After Dennis Carradine, Peter had taken it upon himself to fight crime on his own terms. _The police never seem to do a good job anyways_ , Peter had thought whilst putting together a suit that concealed his identity.

Peter makes up an entirely new identity - he takes the name he’s given by the public, Spider-Man, and makes sure his demeanor and exterior reflects the name he now proudly bears.

He improves his gear with stuff he finds in the dumpsters behind Stark Tower (the dumpsters by the tower were a goldmine for unused tech that was practically begging to be used and utilized). He improves his web-shooters, makes a police scanner, and even paints a dark red spider on his black homemade suit, to further promote his name as Spider-Man. 

Spider-Man, Peter decides, is great. He’s justice, he’s punishment, and he’s freedom.

(He’s everything Peter Parker is not.)

And if he gets a little bruised up on his late night patrols? Well, then it’s nobody's business but his own.

  


“Hey, Parker! You’ve been kinda moody lately, haven’t you pal?” Flash snakes his arm around Peter’s shoulder, “I was just wondering - when’s the school shooting gonna happen?”

Peter has always been good at ignoring the opinions and comments of others. It came with the territory of being a broke kid from the poor side of town, after all.

“Go away, Flash.” Peter mutters, annoyed by his mere presence. _You should be glad I’ve got_ some _morals left, or you wouldn’t look so pretty_ , Peter thinks grimly.  

Before he manages to get away, he feels the hand that’s on his shoulder harshly spinning him around and pinning him to the wall.

 _Oh, so that’s how you wanna play?_ Peter thought angrily, giving Flash an unimpressed glare.

“Oh, come on, man. Don’t be like that.” Flash grins. And suddenly, it clicks. Flash gets _joy_ out if this. He gets joy out of hurting Peter.

Flash does not feel powerful, nor does he feel jealousy. It’s sadism, it’s savagery, and it’s villainy, the way he treats and talks to Peter.

(SLAM, and he’s shoved into the locker, Flash laughing whilst he shoves him. SLAM, and he’s shoved into the wall, Flash laughing whilst he shoves him. SLAM, and he’s shoved onto the floor, Flash laughing whilst he shoves him)

(SLAM, SLAM, SLAM, and Peter lays there, motionless, helpless, unable to do anything but take it.)

“Y’know, Penis… I wasn’t kidding, you know. You should really talk to someone about your issues. Your face looks all fucked up from all the scowling.” he laughs loudly, his belly shaking when he laughs.

Something inside Peter snaps when he hears Flash laugh like the bully he is.

(Snaps like Dennis’ neck that night.)

Peter pushes Flash with force he’s not supposed to have, and watches as Flash all but flies back through the hallway. Flash groans when he hits the ground, and snarls, “What the fuck, Parker?” he sits up slightly, and mutters, “Fucking freak…”

 _Yeah, maybe I’m a freak_ , Peter thought. _But being something, even though that something is being a freak, was better than being nothing_.

(It was better than being an empty shell.)

Peter feels his nostrils flare and his heart beat hard against his chest as he walks closer to where Flash lays on the ground.

(It was better than being like May.)

There’s a voice in his head telling him to stop; to be better, to _do_ better. Peter doesn’t listen, though. He ignores it, the voice of resistance, and just _attacks_.

 _SLAM_ , “I’m so _sick_ of you constantly being an _asshole_ , Flash,” _SLAM_ , “ _I’m so fucking tired_ ,” _SLAM_ , “ _of your constant shit._ ”

It’s only the feeling of being watched that makes Peter stop. He looks up. People have gathered around them; they were looking at Peter, mouths agape and eyes wide.

Peter knows that if he stays any longer, he’ll get caught by teacher - and so, he picks himself up, straightens his spine and backbone, and breathes out heavily.

Peter gives Flash one last glance, looks at his bloodied lip and heaving chest, before he turns his back on him. When he leaves, he leaves with a feeling of superiority.

(His darkness grows, and his stomach shrinks.)

(Shrinks along with his feelings of empathy.)

  


Lunch is a lonely affair for Peter, most days. He’ll sit on the far end of the labeled loser table, away from most of his peers. Ned and Michelle, two of his classmates and previous Decathlon teammates, often eat their lunch at the same table.

They never talk to him, though. And to be honest, he’d rather keep it that way. They’re both pure and mostly unaware of the horrors and nightmares of the world. He doesn’t want to stain them with the filth that is his life.

(His life is nothing but dirt, blood and dust, these days.) 

Which is why, when Michelle out of the blue asks him something with a suspicious eye, he knows it’s time to leave their table, “Don’t you think it’s strange that the spider vigilante appeared just around the time you started distancing yourself from everyone? _And_ just around the time you started standing up for yourself?” 

Peter stops doing what he’s doing, and turns around to glare at her. It’s bold of her to assume that he’s Spider-Man, especially with so little evidence. She’s never been one to back down from a statement, either. She pushes and pushes, and always takes what she’s out to get.

That’s not to say he isn’t Spider-Man. He is.

(He’s just mad she’s so fucking perceptive all the damn time.)

And so, he coldly tells her, “My uncle died, Michelle.”

He watches as her mouth forms an O, and for the first time in his life, he hears the headstrong Michelle Jones stutter.

(He also hears Ned’s faint but repetitive _oh my god_ ’s in the background, but pays him no mind.)

“I- I- _oh_. I’m sorry, Peter, I swear I didn’t know that-”

Peter lets out a harsh breath through his nose, before he stands up, picks up his tray and says, “Now you know.”

When he leaves the table, he feels their eyes bore into his back.

It makes him angrier than it should, to feel their eyes follow him. He doesn’t mind the anger, though. Peter prefers anger over depression, after all. 

(At least you can still _feel_ when you’re angry)

  


When the bell rings, Peter is usually the first one out of the classroom. He can sense the bell ringing before it does so, and because of that, he’s always prepared when it’s time to leave. 

Today, though, when the bell rings and Peter is one step away from the doorway, he hears his teacher call out for him right before he manages to exit the classroom.

“Mr. Parker, stay behind for a moment please.” Mr. Harrington calls out.

Peter curses under his breath, and hears his classmates whistle and laugh at him. 

“Oh shit, you’re in it now Parker.”

“Damn, what’d you do, man?”

When the door closes after the last student, Mr. Harrington gestures for him to sit down. Peter slides his backpack off in a swift motion, and sits down.

Mr. Harrington sits down behind his desk, and opens his laptop whilst saying, “Care to tell me why I’ve been hearing that you got into a fight with Mr. Thompson?”

One of the reasons Peter liked Mr. Harrington was because he never spoke to Peter as if he was stupid; he always treated him like he treated any other adult, like an equal. Peter both respected and appreciated that.

The second reason, was because Mr. Harrington _never_ beat around the bush.  

Still, even with his slight affection for his teacher in mind, Peter clenches his hand and digs his nails into his palm as he replies through gritted teeth, “I don’t know, Mr. Harrington.”

Mr. Harrington looks up from his screen, and gives Peter scrutinizing look.

“What’s going on, Peter? You can talk to me about stuff... you know that, right?” he says softly, worry shining in his eyes. 

“It’s just been… it’s been hard, y’know, with the… family and stuff…”

Only his teachers (aside from now Ned and MJ) knew about his uncle. Peter knew that he wouldn’t have been so lucky with this conversation otherwise. 

(It’s always small mercies. Small mercies he appreciates, yes, but nevertheless; a mercy small and fragile, that held little to no weight in the bigger scheme of things.)

“I would’ve sent you to the office,” Mr. Harrington tells him, looking over his glasses. 

“But you aren’t gonna do that?” Peter breathes out, and it’s not before then that he realizes he’s shaking slightly.  

“No. I’m not.” Peter feels himself go slack against the chair in relief, before his teacher continues, “ _However_ , if this is a recurring occurrence, I will have to send you to the office. I’m sorry Peter, but those are the rules.”

“Not that I’m not thankful or anything- I- uh, it’s just… why?” he asks curiously.

“Why what?”

Peter swallows, “Why… why are you letting me- letting me get away with it? I thought Midtown had a zero tolerance policy?” 

His teacher sighs, before he softly tells him, “Because I know what it’s like, to lose someone you love. And I also happen to know about the different stages of grief - anger being one of them. That’s why I’m letting it slide, just this once.”

Peter thinks of all the men he’s beat up in anger, thinks of Dennis’ dead body, thinks of all the aggressiveness in his very bones.

Peter doesn’t tell Mr. Harrington any of that, though. Instead, he just smiles sweetly, and tells him, “Thank you.”

( _T_ _his can’t be grief_ , Peter thinks. Grief is tears and numbness, grief is heartache and tragedy, grief is agony and coldness.) 

( _No_ , Peter thinks. _This can’t be grief_. After all, grief is cold as ice, and all he feels is a fire burning inside.)

  


When Peter gets home, he does his usual routine of checking and emptying the letterbox. There’s but one letter in the box that day, but Peter immediately knows it’s an important one. 

And, although measly-looking it may be, the letter makes Peter’s heart sink to the bottom of his stomach due to the red stamp in the far right corner of the letter.

Peter should’ve known that May’s home-staying after Ben’s death would’ve brought its fair share of problems with it.

He rips the envelope open, and reads the letter addressed to May.

When he’s finished reading it, he sees red.

  


“ _What is this_.” he demands after he slaps the letter onto May’s bedside table. She looks at it in horror, and the way she looks at the letter tells Peter everything he needs to know.

“Peter-”

“ _No_. May, you’ve got to- this can’t- _we’re gonna get evicted_!” Peter is fuming, and he feels the thunder and storm inside of him, raging and crying out along with his anger. He’s not angry at May, though. He’s angry at himself, for not noticing sooner.

How did he ever let it get this far?

( _It’s your own fault_ , he thinks. _He’s dead because of you. She’s depressed because of you. And soon, she’ll be dead too, all because of you._ )

May reaches for his arm, tries to calm him down by touch, like how Ben used to do whenever he got mad or upset.

Calming Peter down by touch ceased working when Ben died.

The only thing that has calmed him since was the death of the man who had murdered his uncle in cold blood.

(SNAP, and he falls dead. SNAP, and you’re calm and serene, watching the lifeless body before you. SNAP, and you’re a cold-blooded murderer, faster than you can blink.)

“I’m sorry, I’m- I didn’t think it-”

“ _Of course you didn’t think_! God, May, do you even care about _anything_ anymore?”

She’s silent, mouth open but no sound is coming out.

“You’re lucky I have some money saved up in my savings account.” Peter spits out.

( _“It’s for college,”_ Ben had said when asked why he’d opened up an account for Peter. _“Education is important, but by no means cheap!”_

Too bad Peter’s dream of going to MIT is now down the drain, down the drain along with all that he’s lost.) 

She tries reaching for him once more, cold fingers trying to hold onto his navy sweater. Her efforts are in vain, though; Peter just rips himself away from her grasp, rips himself away as if he’d been burnt. 

“Don’t bother,” Peter whispers, “I’m gonna go out, and y’know, _find a job_ , since you’re clearly not gonna do anything.”

When he leaves, he’s got his Spider-Man gear in a bag on his shoulder. He slams the door shut, the protests and excuses that fall from May’s mouth still audible behind her closed doors.

  


Outside, the air is crisp and the sky is blazing red.

( _How funny_ , Peter thinks, _that the skies look like my fists after a patrol._ )

He sits in a crouched position on a random rooftop in Queens, and ruffles through his bag before he finds what he’s looking for. 

His police radar, worn and torn due to being made from second hand technology, might be one of the things Peter valued the most when it came to his vigilantism equipment.

Which is why Peter grumbles, “Shit,” under his breath when it doesn’t work.

He hits his police radar, and curses under his breath once more when he realizes it’s broken.

“God damn it,” Peter curses under his breath. He hates working without all his tools. It makes fighting crime that much harder, in Peter’s opinion, because then you’ve got to stumble upon the crime you’re trying to fight, instead of already being aware of where things were happening.

Luckily for Peter, he’s also got his precognitive sense to alert him of nearby danger, which makes things a little easier for him.

(He’d contemplated on silently calling his precognitive sense for his spidey-sense. Of course, he’d then realized that spidey-sense was what his uncle would’ve called it, and quickly squashed the thought.) 

Realizing it’s not gonna work, he shoves his police radar into his pocket, and zips the pocket shut. Peter makes his way towards the ledge of the building he’s standing on, and flings himself off into the night.

He swings lazily around his neighborhood for a few minutes before he feels the tingling sensation in the back of his neck.

The feeling grows stronger the closer he gets to the danger, and before he knows it, he’s witness to a robbery.

The thief runs off into the darkness, security in tow, until the security loses sight of them.

Peter, however, with his enhanced senses, doesn’t lose sight of the lowlife running for their life. He follows them from above, until they finally slow down on a vacant street.

They settle down against an apartment building to catch their breath, still vigilant of their surroundings.

 _This is almost too easy_ , Peter thinks as he swings to the apartment, and then crawls down the wall to where the person now is positioned. He makes as little sound as possible, and as soon as the thief looks in the opposite direction, he falls on his feet elegantly and quietly.

Peter positions himself against the wall, poses slightly (he’s allowed to have fun despite the gravity of the situations he often finds himself in). He crosses his hands across his chest, and tries to look cool and casual.

(He tries, and he fails.)

“Y’know, I don’t really think black is your color. It really hides your best features.” Peter quips.

The thief whips their head around, and _oh, would you look at that_ , now Peter can actually see her face. She lets out a loud yelp, and tries to run away.

Peter watches her run, amused by the fact that she thinks she can get away. He uses his webs to hold her back, and watches as his webs yank her backwards. He tugs her into a more secluded area, and tuts, “Trying to run away? I don’t think so.”

“What do you want?” she snarls, and tugs once more on the webbing. 

“I’m gonna try doing this the easy way - that way, you might be lucky enough to _not_ eat my fists! How about that?” Peter says in a giddy tone, clapping his hands, “Firstly - what’s your name, lady?”

She tries running away once more despite the fact that the webbing is holding her back. Peter rolls his eyes, and with a _thwip_ , she’s glued to the wall, no means of escape.

“I ain’t telling you shit.” the lady spits out, making Peter sigh.

“Yeah, I know you aren’t. That’s kind of why I webbed you to the wall?” he rolls his eyes once more.

“Let me go! I don’t even know why you’re after me! Fucking hell, are you going after civilians now, too?”

Peter’s about to web the criminals mouth shut in annoyance, when he hears it.

_A little girl._

She’s screaming, but it’s so faint, so weak and fragile that even with his enhanced hearing he has to strain himself to hear what she’s crying out.

“ _Daddy, I don’t wanna! Please, please, please!_ ”

People often say that frightening and disgusting things make their spines feel like ice. 

When Peter hears the screams he feels like his spine is on fire. The fire is threatening to spill over, to overflow and drown him in anger.

“What’s up with you, Spider-Man? Cat got your tongue?”

Peter blinks, and turns to the criminal. He’d forgotten she was there, too blinded by the fire to function properly. 

He knows he’s gotta act quickly if he wants to save the little girl, so he says, “I don’t have time for this - I’ll let the police handle your ugly mug,” and knocks her out cold.

He’s already moved three blocks in the blink of an eye when he hears her scream once more, “ _No! I prayed, I prayed, I told God to make it stop, why, why, why_ -” she cries and cries and cries.

(God left this world to rot ages ago.)

Peter flings himself through a closed window, feeling the shards of glass cut him up as he does so. He feels the blood drip from his now fresh wounds. There is no feelings of pain from the wounds. He feels only rage, and an unappeasable feeling that roars inside of him. 

The man whom the girl had called her ‘daddy’ stands perched over her, looming over her small form.

(Like a predator and its prey.) 

When Peter’s eyes fall on the crying girl, he feels sick to his stomach at the sight of her small form and the state she’s in.

(He, the cat, and her, the innocent mouse, no longer ignorant of the fact that she’s gonna get swallowed alive.)

Her clothes are torn, and her undergarment lies next to her on the ground. She looks disheveled and scared, hugging her own feet tightly against her chest.

The disgusting man whips his head around, and doesn’t even take the time to process the fact that he’s Spider-Man before he enraged roars, “What the fuck- _who the fuck do you think you are, barging into my house!_ ” 

Peter’s eyes darken as he responds in a low voice, “I’m Spider-Man.”

Peter gives no further explanation. The man takes a step away from the girl, and paces towards him with a livid demeanor. Peter lets the man take a swing at him, before he laughs darkly, “Cute,” 

Peter’s smile widens when he tells him, “ _My turn_.”

It only takes one blow to the head, and then he’s knocked out cold on the floor. 

Peter stands over the man. His mouth is wide open, and Peter gives himself a moment to take in the appearance of the man. He looks so normal, with his blonde hair and slightly crooked nose, and with clothes that seemed like something a father would wear 

(And isn’t that just scary? That a man, seemingly normal and kind, was a monster disguised as your everyday man?)

Peter doesn’t care about the mundanity of the man. He turns around to the reason he came, only to be met with a pair of huge brown eyes, big and wide like they tend to be when one is scared for their life.

Peter takes a step towards her, but stops when he sees her crawl further away from him. 

“Hey, hey, it’s okay - I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise…” Peter speaks to her softly, despite the fact that he’s feeling like screaming.

He wonders briefly about her fears in this world. Does she fear growing old, like most children feared? Does she fear the dark, like most children feared? Or does she fear the monster in the dark, cloaked by the shadows of the night?

One thing is now certain. She is no longer untainted, no longer just a carefree child. Her greatest fear is no longer something created by the mind of a child, but rather something real and raw and dark, in the form of someone she should have been able to trust.

(Peter thinks about how he would have turned out if his uncle had done the same to him.)

“Is he someone you know?” Peter asks softly, despite already knowing that he was her dad due to her screams. The little girl nods shyly, still crying and shaking in fear.

(The thought leaves as fast as it comes; blink and you’ll miss the flicker in his eyes, the flicker of a dark clouded thought.)

“Y-yeah…” the girl whispers. Peter feels his heart break and his entire being shake in indignation, but he knows that now is not the time to break down in anger.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” he asks her.

“I’m- I’m Jean…” she whispers once more, but this time she seems less afraid of Peter.

He crouches down to her level to make her feel more comfortable, and with his eyebrows furrowed, he asks her another question, “Do you have a mom?”

Little Jean nods, “Yeah…”

“Where is she?”

“She’s- she’s at my Nana’s house.” Jean answers quietly, “I- I want my mommy…”

“Is she- I’m sorry about this question, but I need to know if you want me to help you- is she… does she treat you like your dad does?”

“No! No, I love my mommy! She’s nice, I promise, she’s really nice!” Jean stutters out. She seems to speak in earnest, judging by the way she’s behaving. He gives her a scrutinizing look, searches for any signs of discomfort when speaking of her mother, before he decides to believe her.

Peter asks her where her ‘Nana’ lives, and finds out it’s not too far away from where they’re currently standing. He takes her there, and right before he leaves to deal with the monster that would forever haunt little Jeans dreams, he hears the cries of a mother who had been close to losing her child.

He’s about to hop out of the window when he hears Jean say, “Wait!” 

He turns around, and feels his heart swell in his chest by the way she’s looking at him. Her eyes are shining with something akin to admiration, and Peter feels like he’s betraying her, thinking of all the terrible things he’s done in his life. 

(The feeling of betrayal doesn’t last long. The anger that’s always lying dormant in his chest rises once more, awakens at the thought of a fatherly clad man.)

“What?” he replies with a smile. Jean doesn’t say anything, just rushes forward to hug him. His smile widens, and he hugs her back tightly. His smile immediately disappears at the sound of another person approaching, and he’s about to scramble for the exit, right until he hears, “Thank you for saving my daughter.”

Peter turns his body to look at Jean’s mother. He licks his lips, and tells her, “Don’t thank me yet.”

“Are you gonna…” The way her eyes darken makes them match the color of her skin. And, although she never finishes her sentence, Peter gets her message loud and clear.

“Yes.” he says in a definitive tone, jaw set and fists clenched. 

The mother purses her lips, eyes still dark and soul forever tainted by the sight of her child in a disheveled state, and simply says, “Good.”

  


 

The man groans as he regains consciousness. Suddenly, the man is yanked up from the ground and slammed into a wall. He lets out a small cry, and when he fully opens his eyes, he’s met with Peter’s furious glare and a hand around his throat. 

“You think it’s fun, to do that to an innocent child, don’t you?” Peter mutters with venom, and squeezes his throat, watching him gasp for air.

“No-” he gasps out and tries to rip Peter’s hand off of his throat.

“ _Liar_!” Peter yells. He punches him in the gut with his other hand, once, twice, thrice.

(He doesn’t lose count, this time around.)

Peter then places both of his hands on his neck, and just _squeezes_. 

The light in the monsters eyes vanish, and so does his life.

  


 

Before he leaves, Peter makes sure that there’s enough evidence left behind for the mother to use when the police arrives. 

He takes one last glance at the body that lays on the ground, covered in traces of his daughter and his own blood.

(Is this what cold-blooded murder is?)

Next to him lies the evidence. A torn dress and red knickers, with signs of abuse woven into the very fabric that lays there.

(No, Peter thinks. There is nothing cold about murder. The color, the act, and the way his body feels - it’s all too warm for it to be cold.) 

When he gets home and is crawling up to his window, he feels a prickling in his neck. He whips his head around, looking for the danger that his senses are warning him about, but sees nothing. He’s completely still for a minute, searching for anything that could’ve set off his precognitive sense; but, there is nothing there. 

He shrugs it off, deciding that his senses are probably all fucked up due to the events of the night. 

When Peter falls asleep that night, thoughts of monsters and men clouding his head, he fails to notice the light robotic sound of a tiny drone that rests on his windowsill.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uni and work is kicking my ass, and i really wish i had more time to write  
> sadly, that's not reality, and thus i'm staying true to the tag about slow updates
> 
> anyways, i hope you like the chapter, don't forget to leave a comment if you wanna scream at me or if you see a mistake etc.!!
> 
> (also, iron dad is coming!!! very VERY soon actually, so be patient ;))


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i told you that iron dad would be coming up soon, didn't i? ;)

Tony hears the doors to his lab slide open, and without looking away from his work he greets the person entering, “Hey honey,”

He feels a slender pair of hands sliding down his arms. It’s only when he feels a kiss on the crown of his head that he finally looks up from his work, only to be met with the worried face of his fiancé.

“You’ve been holed up in here for days. What’s going on?” she softly asks him, and drags his swivel chair, and thus also him, further away from his desk.

Pepper’s expression goes grave, “If you’re relapsing-”

“No, no, no! This isn’t- no, this isn’t… that. Trust me, it’s not.” She stops dragging him further away when they’ve reached the entrance of his lab.

Her expression prompts him to go on. And so, he does. “I’ve been looking at... new possible recruits.” he slowly tells her.

“New recruits… like, for the Avengers?” Pepper frowns, and leans towards Tony in interest. A new recruit meant less heroics for Tony, and by extension, meant less near-death experiences for Tony.

(Pepper hated it, hated the way death seemed to circle around him when he did heroic deeds.)

Tony breathes out, “Yeah, for the Avengers. Or, like, kinda. Or, like, maybe? I’m using the word ‘recruit’ pretty willy-nilly, so I don’t even know if it’s correct to use the term ‘recruit’ in this case-”

“Tony.”

Tony bites his lower lip, “Promise not to freak out?”

Pepper raises her eyebrow, and Tony quickly backtracks, “Not that you do that. You never freak out. Did you know that? Nope, never. Always poised and proper, Pepper Potts-”

Pepper cuts him off, “Stop it with the alliteration, and tell me about the new recruit.”

He braces himself for her reaction even before he says it, “It’s Spider-Man. I’ve been making a new suit for the guy, and I know what you’re gonna say-”

Pepper cuts him off once more, eyes big and mouth agape, “The- the Spider- Tony! Are you talking about _the vigilante_ ? I swear to god - he’s been labeled as _dangerous_ , you can’t just-”

“-he can be a real asset to the team, if we point him in the right direction-”

“-oh my god, I can’t believe you sometimes-”

“I know who he is!” he finally blurts out. When he tells her, it feels as though something heavy is being lifted from his head and stomach, no longer weighing him down. Pepper’s scolding comes to a halt, and she gives Tony an incredulous look. She doesn’t really say anything, just stares at him with her beautiful blue eyes.

(God, Tony’s gone for her.)

“What?” Pepper blinks, breaking her own silence.

He coughs, before he repeats himself, “I know who he is. Took me a lot of research to find out who this guy is, actually, which is the entire reason I’ve been on lockdown for the past few days. And also, just so you know, I was originally looking into who he was to stop him, not… yeah. I’m not entirely stupid, Pep, give me some credit here.”

“I’ll give you 12% of the credit,” she half-heartedly jokes despite being pretty much in shock.

“You’re never gonna let that one go.”

“Never.” Pepper folds her arms across her chest.

“Also, can I just say, I’m loving your dress-”

“Stop side tracking.” she says exasperated.

“Sorry. So. Yes. I know who the Spiderling is.” he scratches the back of his neck sheepishly.

“They’re calling him Spider-Man, you know.” Pepper informs him.

“Yeah, I do know… it’s just, that’s the problem, Pep. He’s not a man.”

And before Pepper gets any wild ideas about aliens or disfigured human-hybrids, he tells her the fact about Spider-Man that has been bothering him ever since he found out, “He’s a _boy_.”

A fourteen year old boy, to be exact.

“He’s… oh my- just _how_ young are we talking here?”

(Too young, he wants to say.)

Tony just looks down, avoiding her piercing gaze.

(Far too young to be as tainted and hardened as he was, he wants to say.)

“Tony…”

(He imagines the boy, young and innocent, face youthful and full of life. He imagines his face, slowly getting drained of joy and life, his soul and drive now only fuelled by hatred.)

In the end, all he says is, “Fourteen.”

“...Tony-”

“What do you want me to say? What do you want me to _do_ ? Just let him rot in a cage, when he can be steered in the right direction with the right guidance?” Tony runs a hand through his unkempt hair, “He’s killed people, yes, I know, _I know_ . But did you know he saved a little girl from sexual abuse? Her mother called Spider-Man a _hero_ , Pep. _A hero_.”

With the flick of his wrist, FRIDAY pulls up the video on a hologram.

The video begins playing immediately, and it begins with the reporter saying, “I’m here today with Mariah Coleman, a Spider-Man supporter. Tell me, Mariah, why do you feel the need to support a vigilante who has done nothing but create fear in our community?”

Mariah clenches her jaw, before she boldly states, “Because he saved my baby from harm. In my eyes, he is a hero, and nothing less.”

“Mrs. Coleman, you are aware that Spider-Man kills his victims?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I know. He killed my husband, you know, because of what he did. And truth be told, I don’t think I’d have it any other way, considering the harm he’d caused my baby girl.”

“So what you’re saying is that you’re endorsing murder? Am I correct?”

“No, what I am saying is… some people are too far gone to be helped.”

The video ends with Mariah Coleman's words left hung in the air. Not a word passes Pepper’s lips, and Tony has never been one to enjoy silence.

“It’s just… if I can steer him in the right direction… I want to do _something_ right. Just one thing. And if that thing is helping a kid become better? Then it’ll have been worth it.” he tells her, effectively breaking the silence.

Pepper gives him a knowing, but pitying look, and runs her fingers through his hair. In the end, all she says before she leaves him, is this, “It’s not me that needs convincing. I believe you. The question is… will the public see what you see?”

  
  
  


Tony looks out of his window, down at the Manhattan skyline.

Will it be worth it, to stay in a city that fuels his anxiety to no end, in exchange for just an attempt at bettering the life of a boy led astray?

He’d contemplated selling the tower many times before. He’d contemplated it after the Attack of New York. He’d contemplated it after his team had broken apart, scattered into shards of glass.

He contemplates it now, despite everything in his bones screaming against it.

Tony sighs, and runs a hand down his face.

 _What would you do, Steve?_ he thinks, like he always does in situations where he feels unrighteous and sullen.

And then, like always when he thinks of Steve, he feels the knot of anxiety that’s always residing in his stomach tighten.

Before it gets any worse, he quickly reaches for his phone and calls his best friend.

It only takes a few seconds before he picks up, “I swear to God, if you’re calling about the proposal again I’m gonna castrate you. I’ve told you a billion times already, Pepper’s gonna say-”

“Hi to you too, honey bear! Gosh, how I am? I’m splendid, absolutely fantastic, thanks for asking, Rhodey-poo-”

“You nearly had an anxiety attack.” Rhodey notices right away, well accustomed to the distressed way in which Tony speaks.

“What? Oh, no, no-”

“Cut the bullshit. What happened?”

“This is… I have a hypothetical question for you.” Tony says, pushing all thoughts about Captain Righteous, exchanging them with thoughts about a certain Spider-Boy instead.

“Oh boy,” Rhodey sighs, “Shoot.”

“Okay, so, let’s say there’s this kid, right? And the kid has potential. Like, a lot of potential. But the only problem is… well. The kid has chosen a path that’s bound to destroy his life in the long run. But if he can be… say, guided, right? Then he can do good things, great things. Outstanding, even. Would you do it? Would you help the kid?”

Rhodey is silent for what feels like an eternity, mulling over Tony’s question, before he finally says, “Honestly? Depends on how far gone the kid is. Also, since when is mentor a part of your job description?”

Tony chokes on his own spit.

“Mentor? Who the hell said mentor? I never mentioned that word, I don’t even…”

Rhodey snorts over the line, “Nice try. Good to know you’re still an atrocious liar.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Tony smiles despite the fact that Rhodey can’t see him, “But you think I should do it?”

“Sure. Sounds like you’re already invested, so why not? It’s not like it’s the end of the world if it doesn’t work out, right?”

“Right. Well. Thanks for the advice, I guess. Talk to you soon?”

He can practically feel the smile in his voice when Rhodey says, “Talk to you soon, Stank.”

Tony snorts, and then ends the call, and immediately says, “FRIDAY, pull up the files on Project Underoos.”

“If I may remind you, boss, there’s only a 36% chance that Spider-Man will become a future Avenger.”

Tony swallows. He was fully aware of the risk, and yet, he couldn’t seem to stop himself from doing it. Tony wasn’t stupid, either. He knew that the worst possible way to actually approach Spider-Man was in his suit. No, he would have to be smart about this. He’d have to assess the boy’s… situation… _out_ of the suit before he actually did anything.

In the end, all he tells FRIDAY is, “I know. Let’s get to work then, shall we?”

  
  
  


(Tony can sometimes still feel Steve’s shield hacking down on his chest, the armor tightening around his chest.

The feeling is embroidered into his skin, like stitches on a wound that has yet to heal.

There are dark days where he lets himself think about what would’ve happened in Siberia if he hadn’t taken out the arc reactor from his chest.

Tony knows the answer is death; yet, he can’t help but dream about it, think about it, fantasize about it.

In hindsight, he can think of a million different ways their problems could have been solved.

There are so many things in his life Tony wishes he had done differently. Steve. His youth. Obadiah. Iron Man. Hammer. Steve. Extremis. Ultron. Steve.

“ _In my eyes, he is a hero, and nothing less._ ” Mariah had said, meaning every word.

The words of his mother suddenly come to mind when he hears Mariah Coleman’s words.

“ _But mammina, why doesn’t the hero just… kill the bad guy?_ ”

“ _Do you know what makes a hero, Anthony? To choose between easy and right, and to rise above those who choose the easy path. It does not take a hero to take someone’s life; it takes a hero to spare them, give them the mercy they have not given others. That, bambino, is what makes a hero._ ”)

  
  
  


He rings the doorbell, and knocks three times on the door.

(Tony knows it’s kind of stupid to ring the bell _and_ knock at the same time, but figures it’s for good measure.)

He taps his foot against the floor, and lifts his arm to check his watch.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

One minute passes by. Then, when it’s nearing two minutes, he frowns, and presses the doorbell once more.

This time, it only takes a few seconds before the door is opened cautiously.

“I thought I reminded you to take the-” a woman is the one to open the door. She halts at the sight of Tony, and as soon as she recognizes him, he sees the color draining from her face.

A white face at the sight of a world renowned superhero? _No, that can’t be,_ Tony thinks.

(But _it can_ ; it can, because she looks terrified at the sight of him.)

Maybe he’s just reading her expression the wrong way.

(There was a voice nagging in the back of his mind, telling him, _you’ve never read a situation wrong, you’re a genius, you’re supposed to be able to read people like you read words._

He ignores it.)

“Can I help you?” the woman, a lady with long and knotted brown-but-greying hair and dull looking skin, asks carefully.

Tony puts on his flashiest smile, ignoring the slight pain from the tugging of his smile, and asks, “Mrs. Parker, right?”

She nods carefully, door still hiding her body.

Tony continues, “My name is Tony Stark, and I’m here to offer Peter Parker an internship at Stark Industries in collaboration with the September Foundation.”

“An… internship?”

“Yes, ma’am.” he cringes at himself for using the word ma’am, but knows he should lay it on thick for Mrs. Parker.

“May is fine,” she says, “and, well, Peter isn’t home yet, but you could come inside if you’d like...”

Once he steps inside, thanking her for the hospitality, he gets the full view of May Parker. The woman is skinny and fragile-looking, and looked as if she’d break at the softest touch. He knows her figure might be teetering on the edge of unhealthy, but doesn’t comment on it.

Instead, he turns to her with a grin, “Do you usually let strangers in that easily?” he jokes.

It’s not his place to judge, after all.

(People come in all shapes and sizes, all forms and feelings. No one is the same, no one having gone through your path of life as it is.)

The corners of her lips twitch, though, her eyes are still drooping downwards, “You’re hardly a stranger, don’t you think?”

(Depression comes in all shapes and sizes, all forms and feelings. No one is the same, no one having gone through your path of life as it is.)

“I suppose you’re right,” He scratches his beard in fake thoughtfulness.

She leads him to the living room. What Tony assumed used to be a cozy and lived-in apartment, is now a reflection of his first impression of May.

It’s not _dirty_ , per se. But isn’t exactly neat nor clean, either. Tony can see the flecks of dust in the air, along with a few articles of clothing laying on the floor in front of what he assumes is a bedroom door.

She hurries over to the piles of clothing, and excuses herself immediately, “I’m so sorry about the- well. I wasn’t really expecting any guests. We haven’t really had anyone over since-”

May doesn’t complete her sentence.

(Tony can fill in the blanks. An article, small and inconspicuous, about the death of a man who had been both an uncle and a husband, loving and kind, shot by a mugger on a cold evening in Queens.)

“Oh, I don’t mind. My lab is a lot messier, and that’s on a good day. Did you know labs get really messy? Pepper- I don’t know if you know who she is, but anyways- she’s constantly on my back about it.”

“Pepper… you mean Pepper Potts, right?” her voice is so soft when she speaks that Tony feels like his eccentric personality might be overwhelming her. Which, truth be told, was not what Tony wanted.

(It did not help that Tony’s eccentric personality was born out of his anxiousness, of which he had plenty.)

“Yes! Amazing, she is, truly. Oh, look at me, always side-tracking,” he rests his arm on the armrest, and says, “Like I said, I’m here to offer your kid an internship. Very prestigious, if I may say so myself.”

“I didn’t even know that Peter had applied,” she frowns.

Tony quickly tells her, “Appl- Actually, funny you should mention that, because people usually don’t apply to internships at SI. You see, we look for potential in other ways, sometimes through school recommendations. Other times, I scout for talent myself if I’m free to do so.”

May bites his lip, and asks him carefully, “Is it a… paid internship?”

Tony’s brows shoot up into his hairline, “Is- yes, of course! Very well paid, very well funded, too. Actually, we have a policy at Stark Industries to pay our interns at least 15 dollars an hour, as well as benefits and all that jazz.”

May smiles softly, though the smile does not quite reach her eyes.

She’s about to say something, when suddenly the boy in question enters the apartment, and greets his aunt, “Hey May, do you happen to know if we’ve got any new neighbours? There’s this crazy car parked outside that I haven’t seen-”

He’s only walked over the living room's door frame before he notices Tony’s presence.

“You’re Tony Stark.” he blinks bewildered.

Tony feels the knot in his stomach tighten as soon as he lays his eyes on Peter. He’d looked young and small in pictures, sure, but nothing could’ve prepared Tony for this. His eyes seem almost too big for his face, and his hair was both curly and unkempt.

But that’s not what makes the knot in Tony’s stomach tighten.

It’s the look in his eyes, of pure raw anger, the flame and fire in the way he glares at Tony.

(The rope ties itself together in a loop, and then another, tighter and tighter, at the sight of a boy who reminds Tony so much of his own youth.)

“I am,” he confirms, flashy grin still in place, “I was just talking with your lovely aunt about the internship that Stark Industries is offering you. Because you’re Mr. Parker, right? Peter Parker?”

“I haven’t applied for anything.” Peter’s jaw sets, and he folds his arms across his chest.

“Oh, I know! It’s more of a scouting thing, we don’t accept applications usually. Most of the time. Some of the time. Anyways-”

“No.”

May lets out a nervous laugh, “Peter, what do you mean no?”

“No, I don’t want your internship.” Peter says, anger (or is it sadness?) still shining in his eyes.

There’s an awkward silence that falls upon them, and Tony is at loss for words. He hadn’t planned for this. He’d planned for nearly every possible outcome, but never this.

(“FRIDAY, tell me the chances of Peter Parker - _not_ Spider-Man - accepting the internship.”

“It’s close to 100%, boss. Would you like me to analyze all the possible outcomes?”

In hindsight, he shouldn’t have excluded Spider-Man from the equation.

After all, Peter Parker and Spider-Man are one in the same.)

Finally, May excuses both herself and Peter out of the room by saying, “Just give me a second with him.”

Tony nods, and after they’ve moved to the hallway, Tony quickly moves closer to the kitchen, where he can still hear their conversation.

He can barely make out a few words, but amidst it all, he hears this;

“- a job!”

“- don’t trust him, May.”

“- Stark!”

“... fine. _Fine_. But I wanna talk to him alone first.”

When Tony hears their footsteps, he scrambles to get back to his original seating, and tries to look as casual as possible when they re-enter the room

Peter enters with May in tow, and throws Tony a glance before he jerks his head in the direction of another room

“I want you to tell me, and only me, what this is all about. Then I’ll consider it. Deal?”

Tony nods, and follows him into what he assumes is the boy’s room. He glances around, and immediately notices a secret compartment in the ceiling.

(Tony would bet his fortune that Peter’s vigilante gear resided there, but decided not to comment on it; he’s here for Peter Parker and not Spider-Man, after all.)

As soon as he closes the door behind him, Peter turns to Tony with a snarl on his face.

“I definitely do not qualify for your internship program, _Mr. Stark_.” he says. The way he says Mr. Stark makes Tony hold back a bark of laughter at his blatant sarcasm.

“You don’t think you qualify? That’s funny, _Mr. Parker_. I’ve seen some of your previous works - robotics club and decathlon team, was it? Shame you quit, I bet both clubs are feeling the loss-”

“ _You know_ ,” Peter interrupted, his tone accusatory, “you know about… about _the thing_. Don’t you? That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

 _Damn it_ , Tony thought. Tony puts on a confuzzled expression, one that he’d perfected from years of practice.

(“ _Huh? Last night? Can’t recall, sorry, gotta go!_ ” his younger self had proclaimed, running away from a one-night stand, memories perfectly intact despite his claims.)

Tony frowns, “I didn’t think you’d want to bring that up”

(“ _You’re a terrible liar, Tony_ ,” Natasha had said with her eyebrow raised, “ _Tip? Always base your lies on something that’s true._ ”

Tony had rolled his eyes, and quipped, “ _Of course you’re gonna teach me how to lie. Not everyone is a spy, you know._ ”

Saying that, Tony would never tell her that he’d use her tip in the future.)

“A superhero comes knocking on my door, tries to offer me an internship, and you thought that I thought you’d just… let it slide?”

Tony sighs, “Listen, kid. It’s not my place to ask you about your time in foster care. I get that your brief time in the foster system was… well. Hard. Difficult. I’ve never experienced it myself, so I can’t with good conscience judge you over it.”

He sees the way Peter freezes up, and silently cheers at the fact that his plan B had worked. It seemed like all the stalking hadn’t been for naught, after all.

(It’s like looking in a mirror, when he observes Peter through his rose-colored glasses. His entire attitude reminds Tony of his own youth, a youth full of crimson and scarlet feelings.)

“I- you- oh.” is all Peter says. He’s tense now, with his fingers slowly curling itself into a fist.

Tony continues with his carefully crafted response, “Luckily for you, I read the fine print at the bottom of the page, as well as between the lines. It wasn’t your fault that she fell down the stairs. They needed to blame someone, and it fell upon you, and it’s shitty and wrong, and I’m sorry that you had to go through that. You should have been placed with your aunt and uncle straight away, but you weren’t.”

“Right- it’s- yeah. Yeah, it was shitty.” he swallows, and avoids Tony’s gaze by being fixated by his own hands.

Peter looks ashamed for a moment, before his face falls into the frown he’d been wearing ever since meeting Tony.

“So… does the internship got money involved- or whatever? Because I’ve been looking for a job, and if this thing doesn’t pay, then I’m not doing it.”

Tony smiles.

  
  
  


“... And that’s the last paper signed. Brilliant!” Tony says in delight.

“When does he start?” May asks, putting the pen she’d been using to sign her name down.

“Well, there’s no time like the present, right?” Tony cheerfully claps his hands together, his eyes going from Peter to May to Peter once more, “Just to show him how things work around the Tower. I was also thinking - maybe you’d want to check out the workspace with us?”

May coils in on herself, and she says with a trembling voice, “Oh- I- well, Peter is old enough to go with you alone... aren’t you, Peter?”

And perhaps Tony is seeing things, but he swears that Peter’s jaw clenches along with his fists, if only for a moment.

Peter doesn’t say anything, just gets up and marches towards the exit. Tony blinks, bewildered, until Peter says with a huff, foot already out the door “Well? Are we doing this, or not?”

  
  
  


“You don’t seem impressed by the tower so far, which, I’m not saying you should be, but it’s kind of unusual for interns not to be… at least _a little_ googly eyed.” Tony says, strolling alongside Peter. He’s showing Peter Stark Tower, showcasing the company’s greatest achievements and its more interesting floors that Tony thought Peter might have been interested in.

Peter, however, isn’t showing any interest at all. He snorts, “I’ve seen enough of the tower from the outside, actually, through the windows. Plus, everyone knows the internet connection here is the best if you wanna download stuff. Also, the dumpsters? A gold-mine for unused tech.”

Tony blinks, “Wait… you’re a dumpster diver?”

Peter doesn’t answer his question, just asks Tony to continue the tour.

Tony doesn’t ask again.

(“ _Is it a… paid internship?_ ”

“ _So… does the internship got money involved- or whatever? Because I’ve been looking for a job, and if this thing doesn’t pay, then I’m not doing it._ ”

“ _Also, the dumpsters? A gold-mine for unused tech._ ”

The words swirl around in Tony’s head, and it’s swirling, repeating itself in an everlasting circle. It’s none of Tony’s business, really. It’s also no one’s business if Tony looks into it later, when the kid is gone, and decides to pay him just a little bit more.)

  
  
  


When they enter the lab, Tony quickly turns to Peter to check his reaction. Much to Tony’s delight, Peter’s eyes seem to widen as soon as he steps inside. However, his reaction doesn’t last long; it takes him only a moment before his face is set on what seems to be his permanent frown.

“FRIDAY, introduce yourself.” Tony says offhandedly, searching for what is gonna be Peter’s first task as an intern.

Peter jumps when FRIDAY speaks, much to Tony’s amusement, “Certainly, Boss. Hello Mr. Parker, I am FRIDAY. I am Boss’ artificial intelligence, and I control the main interface in Stark Tower. Should you require something, I’m always able and available to assist you.”

There is a beat, before FRIDAY continues, “At least, as long as no body is required for the help you’re in need of.”

“I- uh-” Peter stammers out, “- wow. That’s- that’s actually kind of cool.”

Tony looks up for a brief moment, still digging through the mess in his lab.

“Excuse me? Just ‘ _kind of cool_ ’? Jesus, what does it take to impress kids these days?” he jokes, and suddenly, he finds it, the thing he’s looking for, “Aha! Perfect.”

“This,” Tony says, showing Peter what he’s holding in his hands, “is an arc reactor. I’m assuming you already know what it is, with your background in robotics and whatnot- anyways, what I want you to do today is just study it, tell me your thoughts, and we’ll take it from there. Cool?”

Peter nods, curling his lip slightly. Tony hands him the reactor with a smile, and says “Do you have anything against music while working? I hope not - FRIDAY, play the calm music list today.”

“Not the usual classic rock, boss?”

“No, I’m not really in the mood for that today.” he lies, and glances at Peter.

Peter is examining the arc reactor in silence, whilst the music plays in the background. It’s strange, to have another person in the lab there with him; and still, he knows in the back of his mind that he must do this. An impersonal internship wouldn’t work.

(An impersonal internship would remind him too much of his father, of when Tony was younger.

“ _Not now, child._ ” Howard would say with the flick of his wrist, sending Tony off to the other scientists.

“ _Can’t you bother the others, where the interns are?_ ” Howard would say with the flick of his wrist, sending Tony off to people who weren’t his family.)

The silence stretches, and Peter is turning the arc reactor on its head, when suddenly the song changes, and the speakers are playing Yesterday.

“ _Yesterday, all my troubles seemed to far away… Now it looks as though they’re here to stay… Oh, I believe in-_ ”

“ _Turn that off_ ,” Peter barks angrily, practically seething at the sound of the music.

Tony raises his brow, and lets out a small huff, “What, you don’t like The Beatles? It’s a classic, kid-”

“ _I said TURN IT OFF_!” Peter screams, and Tony recoils, and quickly says, “You heard the kid.”

The music turns off, but Tony can still hear a buzz in the room, amplified by the anger that’s radiating off of Peter. Only a heartbeat goes by, and then suddenly Peter is picking up all his stuff in a haste.

“I’m done for the day.” he says in a low voice.

“Woah, woah, hey, hey, hey- done for the day? We were just getting started! Okay, wait, there’s still- kiddo-”

“ _What?_ ”

Tony just sighs, and tells him, “Be here at four tomorrow. That’s all.”

When Peter leaves, he slams the door. There’s a small dent in the handle from where he’d grabbed it, and if Tony is to be honest with himself, he’d half-expected the glass door to shatter at the force that Peter had slammed it shut.

“What have I gotten myself into,” Tony breathes out, placing his head in his hands.

“I believe you’ve gotten yourself into what Mr. Rhodes would call ‘ _a pickle_ ’, boss,” FRIDAY, sassy as ever, says.

Tony snorts into his own hands.

 

Later, when Tony leaves the room and the lab goes dark, and Tony fails to notice the blinking screen alerting the malfunction of a drone that sits on the windowsill in a Queens apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm not entirely satisfied with this chapter, which is why i've been delaying it for so long... also, university has been absolutely kicking my ass lately.
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it, and if you did, don't forget to leave a comment - the comments fuel my writing!


	4. four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You didn’t have to move tables because of us.”
> 
> Peter swirls around, already knowing who the source of the voice is before they’ve chosen to speak. And sure enough, goodie-two-shoes Ned Leeds and his stubborn bookworm friend Michelle Jones stands there, trays with food in hand, looking down on him where he sits.
> 
> “It wasn’t because of you.” he simply says, and hopes that that will be that.

At four on the dot, Peter walks through the massive entrance at Stark Tower. He strolls casually towards the front desk, despite the fact that he feels completely out of place.

Although he had displayed no fascination or interest when he’d walked through the building with Tony Stark the previous day, he couldn’t help but let himself be enthralled by the sheer brilliance that was everywhere around him now that he was alone.

The lobby, although not as technologically advanced and _amazing_ as Tony’s lab, was absolutely beautiful. The marble pillars placed in each corner of the room made the already tall ceiling seem taller, and there was a blue holographic globe in the centre of it all, illuminating the space in a picturesque ocean hue.

In fact, everything seemed to have a bit of a blue color theme; there was even a serene vibe omitting from the walls around him, making him feel a calming sensation he’s been longing to feel ever since his life had turned to shit.

He takes some time to admire his surroundings while he can, before his expression falls into its usual reserved state.

It’s not that he _wants_ to seem disinterested in front of Tony Stark, or anyone for that matter - he just that he finds that he’s losing pieces of himself, little by little, and it seems to mostly fall apart when he’s in front of others. And so, by extension, his aloofness takes over his entire being, little by little.

(Piece by piece, he’s falling apart. Piece by piece, like a lego house that’s losing it’s parts. Piece by piece, like flecks of dust, flying off into nothingness.)

  
  
  


Peter closes the lab door behind him, and turns to Tony, awaiting instructions.

“I was thinking we’d continue where we left off yesterday, yes?” Tony says, small smile playing on his lips. Peter can’t help but notice that the smile doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Oh- I- yeah, sure,” Peter answers dully, and continues in his monotone voice, “It’s just… the energy output on this thing is already insane - something like, 20 gigajoules per second, right? - anyways, I couldn’t help but notice that you’re not using… vibranium, is that what it’s called? Wakanda released their research not too long ago, and I know you’re a billionaire and all that, so I’d expect you’d already used it, right? Just-”

Peter babbles on, doesn’t even notice he’s talked about the arc reactor for a good five minutes, before he feels a voice in the back of his mind pester him.

(‘ _Stop being annoying, you brat. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t care, he doesn’t care; the only one who ever cared was Ben, and now he’s gone._

 _Stop being annoying, you brat, brat, BRAT_.’)

Peter promptly closes his mouth, stops talking, and it’s only then that he notices Tony’s scrutinizing look. Tony seems contemplative, before he finally says, “Huh. Not bad. Mind if I quiz you? Nothing bad, I promise, it’s only to test your capabilities.”

He bites his tongue, hears the voice chanting in the back of his mind, but nods all the same. And then Tony is firing question after question, most of them about mechanical engineering, some of them about biology and other sciences.

Peter finds he doesn’t mind the questions - in fact, he’s enjoying it. It’s a welcome break from his usual dark thoughts that seem to cloud up his entire brain at times.

When he has answered Tony’s last question, he seems both satisfied and happy. He holds up a finger and says, “Wait one second- I knew it’d be useful but not- then again-” he mumbles incoherently, looking around in the lab before he reaches for a plain-but-heavy-looking book.

“Catch,” Tony throws the book at him, and hadn’t it been for Peter’s reflexes, he’s pretty sure the book would’ve hit his face. He catches it with ease, and though Tony should’ve been suspicious about the ease he catches it with, he doesn’t seem to notice anything.

“And this is?” Peter asks curiously, examining it.

“A book about… well. Everything. The book is one of a kind, actually. I wrote it. Well, kind of. I put it together last night, mostly with things I think you’ll find useful if you’re gonna work for me.” he says off-handedly, as if it were something he did on occasion.

Peter looks at the book he’s holding in disbelief, “And… you’re trusting a teenager you’ve just met… with a book full of information anyone would love to have?”

“... when you put it that way, it does sounds kind of stupid. But yeah, essentially. What- you don’t think you’ll understand it? Because if you wanna bet, I bet you’ll understand it all. And what’s more, I bet you’ll come up with great suggestions for improvements,” Tony doesn’t seem phased in the slightest, only excited at the prospect of teaching Peter everything he knows.

“You know… I wasn’t really gonna have you be my personal intern.” he slowly says, but all Peter hears is _personal intern_.

(Personal, personal, _personal._ )

“Oh? And uhm- why- why is that?” Peter asks curiously, silently cursing himself for stuttering like a fool. He made a mental note to work on that specific bad habit, thinking that stuttering probably didn’t do much to help when he was trying to be intimidating as Spider-Man.

“Well, I guess I just... knew. That it'd be a waste to send you down to the more normal labs, I mean. Because I see a lot of potential in you. You kind of remind me of myself. Not, like, appearance wise… although… no, no, never mind. Anyways, not many others understand much of what I work with. And even less people can add to it, and even better, make good suggestions for improvements.”

“Right,” Peter says flatly, and then mutters, “A billionaire comparing himself to a jaded teen, that’s kinda funny.”

If Tony hears his self-deprecating joke, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he asks FRIDAY to pull up some specs, and tells Peter to get to work.

(Good things don’t happen to Parkers, Peter idly thinks. It’s only a matter of when, not if, everything’s gonna go to shit.)

(That doesn’t really matter, though. He’s gonna enjoy the internship for what it’s worth.)

  
  
  


Peter hasn’t even walked three steps inside of the locker room before he hears Flash shout after him, “Penis! Get back here!”

Peter feels the pure, unadulterated rage that had been lying dormant in his chest for the past day unravel inside of him. It’s slowly but surely tightening the grip around his throat, squeezing agonizingly slow.

“I’d rather not,” he mutters, and tries to get away, walking decidedly towards the opposite end of the room.

Peter’s weak resistance proves to be useless, however, when Flash marches towards him, determined and slyly all at once.

He grabs Peter by the collar, and Peter staggers backwards against the lockers, “Not so tough without your audience to back you up, huh?”

Peter feels his own glare heat up under Flash, his fist shaking, throbbing, _aching_ to do something.

(His own mind is divided, chanting both _don’t, don’t, don’t_ , and _attack, attack, attack._ )

The rage is a slow process, to start with.

(It usually sneaks up on him, slowly but surely, and holds him tight, squeezes, squeezes, squeezes, until there’s no air left to breathe but the toxic darkness that’s consuming his life.)

“You think you can just catch me off-guard and then get away with it? I don’t think so, Penis.”

Flash punches Peter before Peter punches him. His fist collides with Peter’s cheek.

Peter’s tongue grazes the inside of the cheek that has been punched, and tastes the iron, the blood, the hatred.

(Later, when he’s in bed and contemplating the choices he’s made, he’ll recognize that blood is what makes his cup run over.)

It all falls tumbling down on him so quickly, so fast, so unexpected, that his vision goes all cross. It’s red all around, red the color, red the sound, red the feeling.

 _Red, red, red_.

He leaves Flash on the ground, bungled up, messy and bloody. This time, there’s no one around to pick up the pieces Peter has left behind.

  
  
  


“You didn’t have to move tables because of us.”

Peter swirls around, already knowing who the source of the voice is before they’ve chosen to speak. And sure enough, goodie-two-shoes Ned Leeds and his stubborn bookworm friend Michelle Jones stands there, trays with food in hand, looking down on him where he sits.

“It wasn’t because of you.” he simply says, and hopes that that will be that.

Instead of leaving, however, they both look at each other, talk to each other wordlessly, before settling down next to him.

(There’s still a small space between them, Peter notes. A space small enough to be felt by Peter, but not notable enough so that anyone walking past would’ve thought anything by it.)

“I- uh- I’ve got something you might want.” Ned stutters out mere moments after he’s settled down.

Peter snorts, “Yeah?”

“You- you mentioned-”

“If you’re gonna stutter through this entire conversation, I think I’ll spare us the pain, Ned.” Michelle blankly states, clearly not in the mood for Ned’s nervous chattering.

“I’m not- I’m just-”

“Oh, so that’s what this is? A conversation?” Peter asks with an eyebrow raised. Michelle, however, gives as good as she gets, and counters with, “Per definition, a conversation is an oral exchange of sentiments, observations, opinions, or ideas. So yes. It is a conversation, _Peter_.”

Peter shrugs, and thinks, _fair enough_.

“As- as I was saying. I- uh, couldn’t help but remember that in your last decathlon practice, you mentioned that your... uncle’s… and also yours, actually… uh, your copy of The Empire Strikes Back got ruined. Like, the original copy, the signed one? And I’m a huge Star Wars nerd. And, I’ve- uh-”

Michelle cuts him off with rolling eyes, and supports her elbows on the table, “What Ned is trying to say is- he’s got an extra copy of the original with the signatures, and wondered whether you’d like to have it or not.”

Peter blinks.

He’d forgotten about that. About Ben’s, and thus by extension Peter’s, obsession with Star Wars. Suddenly, Peter is hit with a dark deep-seated feeling, something so raw and dark and tainted, that he feels sick to his very core.

(Is it grief, to feel tainted by the reminder of what used to be his? Is it grief, to forget the things your loved ones used to love, to leave it behind?

 _Is it grief, is it grief, is it grief?_ )

(He wishes he could go back in time, to a much simpler time, when the biggest worry he had was whether he’d have to ditch movie nights with Ben and May to study or not.)

“Peter,” Michelle snaps him right back to reality and out of his own mind. His vision flickers, before he realizes that they’re waiting for an answer.

“No, thanks. I’m fine,” he bites out, and tries to go back to eating the rest of his food. He stabs the food, but finds himself moving it around more than he finds himself eating it.

“Oh, uh. Okay, then.” Ned swallows, “I- would you mind if I talked about-”

“Talk about whatever you want to, man. I don’t care.” Peter says disgruntled.

The words, which Peter had said just to get Ned’s jitteriness to stop, seem to work wonders for Ned’s confidence.

“Oh! Well, then!” he smiles, and Michelle groans, “Here goes. Now you’ve done it, Parker.”

After a few minutes, Peter finds himself silently agreeing with Michelle. _Now you’ve done it, Parker_. Ned babbles, goes on and on about superheroes, Star Wars and other nerdy things.

“There’s this cool Lego set that- that- _holy shit_! What happened to Flash?!” Ned suddenly proclaims, mouth wide open in shock.

“Oh my god,” Michelle exclaims, clearly shocked by the tattered sight of Flash Thompson.

“What do you think happene- Peter?”

They don’t even see him leave. Peter is out the door faster than they’ve managed to blink, with his heart palpitating hard and loud against his chest.

  
  
  


(“ _Damn muggers,_ ” Flash had apparently said, spitting blood that was still seeping from his mouth on the floor, “ _I_ _scared them away, though. They got a few good ones in, but I got the final hit._ ”

It doesn’t surprise Peter that Flash neglects the truth, lies through his bloody teeth. “ _I_ _don’t kiss and tell,_ ” were words often uttered by a smug Flash.

And Flash, despite his many flaws, was a boy of his word.)

  
  
  


May hadn’t even bothered to greet him when he had entered through their door that day. She’d stayed in bed, quiet as ever, and she hadn’t responded when Peter greeted her at the top of his lungs.

Peter told himself that it was fine. She was probably sleeping, anyways.

(He lies to himself more than he lies to anybody else.)

(He’d heard the steady rhythm of her heart, beating in tact with her sobs and cries.)

(Drip, drip, drip, a tear falls, and a kid does too, falls over the edge of a building he has learned to scale on his own.)

  
  
  


Peter sits on the edge of Queens where he listens in on his newly fixed police radar. He’s listening intently, trying to will away his memories about Ben and Star Wars and inner turmoils.

There’s a soft _humm_ from the radar, and then, finally, a voice;

“Attention all units. Robbery at Jamaica Ave, 164th.”

 _Go time_ , he thinks, pulling down his mask before he swings off into the night.

He reaches the robbery before the police do; web-slinging has always been faster than New York traffic, which Peter counted as a small blessing.

He’s swinging high, soaring through the air; and then he lets himself fall mid-air. He lands graciously and lightly on his feet, facing the robbers. There’s two of them; both were clad in black, and Peter nearly snorted at how stereotypical it all was.

Robber number one is the one with the bag of stolen goods, and he immediately clings to it for his life (Peter didn’t know their names, so naming them number one and number two would have to do).

Peter lets out a fake gasp, “Oh, you brought me gifts! You shouldn’t have!”

Robber number one opens his mouth as if to say something, but before he can get a sound out Peter webs his mouth shut, and then webs his legs together, as well as his hands.

Peter uses his webs to lift Robber number one up from the ground.

Robber number one dangles in the air, webbing keeping his mouth shut and his body from running. Peter hears footsteps, and whips his head around, only to see Robber number two run away. He doesn’t get far, though; Peter webs him up too, against the wall. He leaps forward to where the man now stands plastered against the wall.

He’s about to punch the man in the throat, his hand raised, charging, charging, until- _Holy shit_ , he thinks, shocked by his own actions.

He backs away from the man, and without doing anything else, he swings away, leaves the problems he knows he has behind.

(Peter tries to convince himself that he didn’t just try to murder a petty thief.)

( _He didn’t. He didn’t. He didn’t._ )

(He did.)

  
  
  


Peter should go home. He should stop what he’s doing, stop himself before he goes too far. And even though he knows this, knows he should retire for the night, he doesn’t.

It’s the thought of a silent home, of a place still bearing the essence of his uncle, that stops him from going home.

Peter webs his way onto the next crime scene, and wills his demons away.

(He wills them away, but they don’t leave him. They never do.)

  
  
  


Peter is about to head home, when he sees it. Or rather; he hears it, and then he sees it. He can only make out a few words, but the words that he can make out are _tonight_ , _sell_ , _money_ , _kid standing watch_ , and _stealing_. And it’s after hearing those words that Peter sees him.

There’s a kid standing watch outside what looks like a warehouse; his clothes are shabby and worse for wear, his hair is messy, dirty even, and so is his complexion.

 _Good god_ , Peter thinks. He looks so small and frail; he looks even younger than Peter.

( _Is this what people see when they see me?_ Peter thinks. Someone small and unable, someone who needs help to get away from the big guy?)

Peter drops down right in front of the boy, and before the boy manages to scream, Peter places his hand on his mouth, “Sh!”

After making sure the boy is gonna remain silent, Peter lets out a huge breath.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Peter tells him softly. And it’s true - he’d never hurt a kid. Peter figured that even a vigilante had to have some principles, however small or insignificant.

Echoes of his own words can be heard in the back of Peter’s mind.

( _“Hey, hey, it’s okay- I’m not gonna hurt you, I promise…” Peter speaks to her softly, despite the fact that he’s feeling like screaming._ )

“What’s your name?”

“K-kyle. My name is- it’s Kyle.” the boy stutters out. Kyle is still backed up against the wall, too afraid of Peter to do anything else.

“And what are you doing out here?” he tests Kyle, sees if he’s gonna tell a lie or tell the truth.

“I-I didn’t- they- they asked me t-to-”

“It’s okay, take it easy man…”

“I- I’m lookout, I- I’m sorry I didn’t think- I just needed some- some-”

Kyle is cut off by the sound of a gruff voice coming from the opposite side of the wall, “What was that?”

Peter curses under his breath, and urges Kyle to give him more information before they’re found out, “You’re lookout? For who? What are they planning?”

“I- I don’t know! They told me I’d get 50 for- for just standing watch, and- and now they’re probably gonna- because you’re here, oh my god, _oh my god_ -”

He doesn’t get to tell Peter any more than that, though. A door slams open, revealing a handful of scary looking older men and women. There’s one woman in the front who seems like the leader, with crazy black hair and crazy eyes. She reminds Peter of Bellatrix LeStrange.

“The little shit tattled on us!” She snarls. She makes a gesture with her hands at the same time in which Peter mutters, “ _Shit!_ ”

Some whip their knives out, but most of them whip out handguns - and all of them are aiming at Peter. Peter feels the tingle in the back of his neck, and jumps away from the first shot.

Peter jumps. He clings onto the ceiling. He takes out two of them by webbing them up tightly against the wall. He feels his sixth sense tingle once more, and lets go of the ceiling, landing right in between two of the criminals. He punches one of them in the head, with strength and calculated positioning he’s been practicing, effectively knocking him out. The other guy swings his knife at Peter, and manages to graze Peter’s side.

Peter hisses at the pain, but pays it no mind - he uses the same tactic as before, and manages to knock him out before he gets to do more damage.

In the end, the last people standing are Peter, Kyle and the Bellatrix lookalike. Peter catches his breath for a minute, sixth sense telling him there is no immediate danger-

 

_BANG_

 

Peter whips his head around. Kyle looks stunned. The young boy slowly moves his gaze to where he is now bleeding, clutching his own stomach to keep the pain at bay.

And suddenly, it’s all too familiar, all too close to Peter’s past, too close for comfort.

 

(“ _Ben, Ben, Ben_ ,” he’d cried out, holding the bleeding abdomen to keep his uncle from bleeding more.

“ _No, please, no, no, no-_ ” Peter had hugged him tight, breaths coming out in short hitches as he’d held his bleeding uncle.

“ _Don’t leave me- don’t-_ ” he’d said, already knowing it was too late.

“ _Wake up, Ben… WAKE UP!_ ”

)

 

“NO!” someone screams out, and before he knows it, Peter lunges himself towards Bellatrix with the knife of the man he’d knocked out firmly in his grasp.

(Later, Peter will remember that it had been him who had screamed.)

He hears someone faintly in the background, telling him to stop, yelling, screaming, begging.

Kyle chokes out a cry. By the time Peter realizes that Kyle was the one begging him to stop, however, it is already far too late. Peter stabs her on the side of her throat. He watches as the light in her eyes fade away.

(The life leaves her body so quickly, it felt like he hadn’t really killed her at all.)

Peter watches as the blood trickles down her throat and onto his arm. The lifeless body falls to the ground with a thud, the sound making the reality of the situation crash down on Peter.

There’s a deep seated feeling in Peter’s chest, something he can’t quite put his finger on, and he can feel it growing the more he looks at the stiff and cold body.

Peter turns to Kyle, and only tells him this; “Go. You need a hospital.”

Kyle scrambles to get out of the warehouse.

  
  
  


He swings home after disposing of the knife he’d used and ridding himself of other evidence. The weird stomach pain still lingers ever so slightly when he finally lays his head on his pillow.

The morning after, when the sun rises and the sky is blazing red, Peter doesn’t even remember the feeling at all.

  
  
  


(Peter finds out a week later that Kyle will be okay. His relief at the news is enough to keep the darkness at bay for days.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can never seem to get satisfied with my chapters, so i just decided to say fuck it and post it anyways.
> 
> also, i don't really know when i'll post next time; i'm currently writing a piece for the secret santa in the harry potter hinny fandom (which is a challenge, let me tell you!)
> 
> anyways, until next time!


	5. five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hm. You kind of seem like the talking type, but I guess I judged you too fast.” Happy tells him off-handedly. 
> 
> Peter doesn’t tell Happy that he used to be like that, a rambling mess whose mouth could rarely keep up with the words his head produced.
> 
> Peter doesn’t tell Happy that he used to be full of life, until his uncle was robbed of his, ultimately robbing his aunt’s life of hers, too.
> 
> Peter doesn’t tell, and Happy doesn’t ask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> un-betaed
> 
> as always, lol.

Flash is avoiding Peter.

Peter doesn’t mind it, really. It’s kind of a relief to be left alone, truth be told.

Yet, even though he feels relief for the time being, he knows it’s only temporary. There’s another feeling, something unsettled and uneasy, turning and coiling inside his stomach.

His head screams at him, screams at him to watch his back, screams at him because something is coming his way.

(Look out, look out, _look out._ )

Despite the way his head screams at him internally, though, the day goes off without an incident.

Peter walks down the hallways, and notices Flash and his friends give him a quick glance, before they slip away into the crowded hallways and get lost in the swarm of teenagers. 

Peter keeps walking.

 

 

 

 

“Mr. Parker? Stay behind for a second, will you? It’s about your extracurriculars.”

Peter looks at the clock on the wall, and grimaces. He turns to Mr. Harrington, “I’m sorry, but if I don’t go now I’ll be late for my internship.”

“It will only take a second, don’t worry – I’ve been told about that internship, and I know it’s important, so I won’t keep you long.” 

Reluctantly, Peter stays behind, and tells him with all the authority he can muster, “Alright. It’ll have to be really quick, because I really can’t miss the next train.” 

They wait until the last student leaves the classroom before Mr. Harrington turns to Peter with a soft smile.

“I’ve been asking around, looking for another replacement for the Decathlon team and… well, to be quite frank with you, it’s been difficult finding someone with your level of intelligence.”

Peter stays silent. What was he supposed to say? _Sorry, I can’t, in between my internship with Tony Stark and my vigilantism, I just don’t have the time._  

Mr. Harrington continues, “I suppose it does come off a bit like I’m groveling, but I guess I’m asking if there’s anything I can do to get you back on the team?” 

Peter purses his lips, “Mr. Harrington, I’d love to, but it’s just, I’ve got this internship and I wanna do things right because it’s important to me and stuff… and, uh, I guess I’m trying to appreciate it for what it’s worth, because it’ll be good for my future and whatnot…” he blurts out, spewing out excuse after excuse, knowing fully well that those aren’t the reasons he isn’t telling his teacher _yes_. They’re only part of the reason.

Mr. Harrington sighs, and gives him an imploring look.

“Oh, well. I don’t suppose I can ask you to _think_ about returning to the team?” he asks.

Peter gives him a tight smile, “I guess thinking about it won’t hurt me.” 

Mr. Harrington lets out a heavy sigh of relief, and Peter feels a pang of something in his chest that he can't quite put his finger on.

“I’ll leave the spot open for a month or so, just in case you change your mind… Thank God we still have your reserve on the team. Deal?” 

The tight smile never swerves, and it only gets tighter when Peter tells him, “Deal.”

He leaves the classroom, and though he can practically feel the hopeful gaze of Mr. Harrington, he just keeps marching forwards in determined steps. 

The old Peter would’ve stayed behind, overjoyed at the prospect of being wanted. But he knows better, now. No one wanted Peter; not really. They wanted his knowledge, his hard-earned academic talents, his brain. But not Peter, for who he was.

(Never Peter.) 

 

 

 

 

Once in the hallway, Peter checks his phone. He softly curses under his breath. He hadn’t anticipated being late to his internship because of Mr. Harrington’s small holdup. _Whatever_ , Peter thinks, _Tony will just have to deal with the fact that I’m still in school like every other teenager, and that I have other priorities_. 

(Peter will never admit it out loud, but he’d had actual fun the last time he’d been at Stark Tower. Tony’s bots were a delight, always mucking everything up. Tony would curse the bots out and threaten to give them away, though Peter knew by the tone in which he said it that there was no real weight to his words.)

Though he acts like he doesn’t care about the internship, Peter finds himself running outside, hoping he’ll catch the train on time. He’s only jumped down the flair of stairs when he suddenly notices a shiny black car with tinted windows situated in front of Midtown High. Next to the car stands a slightly plump man, dressed in a black fitted suit that practically screamed wealth. He’s looking at his watch, tapping his foot impatiently against the concrete. 

Peter, who is coincidentally headed in the direction where the car stands, tries to keep his distance from the man. 

Then the man looks up from his watch, and his gaze immediately falls upon Peter’s frame. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes, and then he begins walking towards Peter, eyes still fixed on him.

Peter doesn’t recognize the slightly plump man, no matter how much he racks his brain for something that’ll give him a clue who he is. Peter begins backing away from him, thinking _shit, shit, shit_. That doesn’t seem to matter, though, because clearly the man recognizes Peter, and continues walking towards him in a determined manner.

“There you are,” the man grumbles, “Tony asked me to pick you up. You’re late.”

Peter blinks, “Excuse me?”

The man lets out an exasperated sigh, and points to the vehicle’s registration number, and Peter’s eyes dart towards where his finger is pointing, and- oh. _Oh_.

 _That makes sense_ , Peter thinks. 

The plate reads the words ‘STARK’, and Peter has to silently marvel at how efficient Tony’s exhibitionistic tendencies can be.

“Uhm- you’re picking me up, you said?”

The man simply grunts in response to his question. _I’ll take that as a yes_ , Peter thinks.

“Thanks, I guess. What did you say your name was?” 

“I didn’t say. It’s Happy Hogan.”

Peter holds in a snort at the name. _Happy_ indeed. Upon hearing the name, Peter now knows who he is. He’d never known the face of the man called Happy Hogan, who had been so unfortunate to have been caught up in the whole Extremis-affair a few years prior, but the name was pretty well-known.

Even so, Peter isn’t entirely sure he should trust a man who has just turned up out of the blue. And so, he tells Happy, “Let me just- uhm- message-” 

In the end, Peter doesn’t even need to contact him. There are already several unread messages on his phone from Tony. 

_03:56 PM: Happy is gonna pick you up._

_03:56 PM: Figured it would be quicker than public transit._

_03:57 PM: happy_being_happy.jpg_

_03:57 PM: That’s Happy, by the way, so you know what he looks like._

_03:58 PM: And before you ask, yes, he’s always smiling. Happy is his name for a reason._

He takes one glance at the photo before he recognizes that it’s the same man that now stands in front of him. He looks up from the phone, and smiles weakly at Happy.

“Guess I don’t need to message him after all.”

Happy rolls his eyes, and says, “Figures. Word of advice when it comes to Tony? He’s usually always one step ahead.”

He opens the door for Peter out of courtesy, and jerks his head, telling Peter to get a move on.

Peter takes a deep breath, and gets in the car.

 

 

 

 

They drive mostly in silence, until Happy finally breaks the silence and says, “You’re not very talkative, are you?” 

“No.” 

“Hm. You kind of seem like the talking type, but I guess I judged you too fast.” Happy tells him off-handedly. 

Peter doesn’t tell Happy that he used to be like that, a rambling mess whose mouth could rarely keep up with the words his head produced.

Peter doesn’t tell Happy that he used to be full of life, until his uncle was robbed of his, ultimately robbing his aunt’s life of hers, too.

Peter doesn’t tell, and Happy doesn’t ask.

 

 

 

 

The first thing Tony does when Peter enters the lab is point at his hands. 

Peter nearly slaps himself at his own stupidity. He’d forgotten to cover up the cuts and bruises. _Shit_. 

“Jesus, what happened to your knuckles?” Tony asks curiously, eyeing his hands with blatant intrigue. Tony reaches for Peter’s hands to get a better look, but Peter flinches away before he gets to touch him. 

“I- I don’t think that’s any of your business,” Peter tells him with a scowl, and takes two steps away from him.

(Stupid, stupid, _stupid._ )  
  
Tony lifts his brow, “Hm. Well, _I_ think you are wrong. I think it _is_ my business when my intern comes in with his knuckles all jacked up.” 

Peter forcefully rolls his eyes at Tony’s dramatics, and tells him, “It’s nothing. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning, is all.”

“Oh?” Tony says, “And why’s that?”

Peter rarely outright lied to someone. Sure, he modified the truth, or better yet, deflected questions he didn’t want to answer. He was resourceful like that, especially since he was a horrendous liar.

( _Half-truths are better than lies_ , Peter thinks, _because at least then you aren’t entirely being deceitful. Not really._ )

So that’s what Peter does. He doesn’t lie. He just… modifies the truth. 

“I got in a fight at school.”

(Tony doesn’t need to know that the fight had been well over a week ago, and that the bruises weren’t caused by a fight at school.)

“A… fight. _You_. Fighting.”

“Uhm- I- I didn’t exactly win.” And he hadn’t. It was obvious that the fight with Flash still wasn’t over. 

(It’s not lying, Peter tells himself. It’s not.) 

Tony shrugs, “Could’ve fooled me. Back in my day, when you lost in a fight you usually got a nice purple semi-permanent tattoo around your eye to match the fists of the opponent.”

Tony decides to drop talking about it, just like that, which makes the hollow feeling Peter had felt in his chest go away. Relief washes over him like the rain washes the dirty streets of New York; slowly but surely.

“’Back in my day’? You do know that makes you sound, like, a million years old, right? Not that you aren’t, mind you.” Peter quips, letting parts of his former self slip through the mask he’d so carefully constructed. Tony feigns shock, and places a hand over his heart.

“Are you calling me old? FRIDAY, did you hear that? Wow. I can’t believe it. My own intern, plotting against me.” 

“In comparison to young Mr. Parker, I do believe it would be correct of him to call you old.” 

Peter isn’t quite sure, but he thinks he might hear a hint of sarcasm in the AI’s voice. That is, if AI’s could be sarcastic. Which, knowing Tony, wouldn’t be a surprise. A sarcastic AI is nothing compared to some of the things he’s been shown since beginning his internship at the tower. 

Tony grumbles something about ‘teens’ and ‘FRIDAY’ and ‘disrespectful’ under his breath, making Peter let out something akin to a small laugh. 

“Alright, enough sassing me. I’m old, I know, I get it. Onto more important matters – wanna make fun of some Oscorp tech?”

Peter rolls his eyes at his antics, “I thought we were gonna keep working on the blasters?”

“I got bored, finished it right after you left. Works like a charm. Kind of. Actually, it doesn’t work at all, least of all does it work _well_ , but point is, I’m bored, and I want to make fun of Oscorp tech, so that’s what we’re gonna do today. Capisce?” 

“You’re the boss,” Peter tells him with a small smile.

“I _am_ the boss, thank you for finally acknowledging it.” Tony grins. He walks over to the drawer under his desk, and from the drawer he pulls out two phones.

He throws one of the phones at Peter carelessly. Peter catches it swiftly with one hand due to his powers, and ponders silently if Tony was always this reckless with things he could just as easily hand over to other people.

They work in silence, with music being the only sound to fill the room. Peter has never been a particularly big fan of the music Tony likes, but in the past few weeks, he’s grown familiar to the sound of Black Sabbath and ACDC.

It’s kind of nice, Peter thinks.

(But he’ll never tell Tony that. Peter doesn’t think he’ll be able to stand the gloating if Tony ever found out.)

“I’ve been meaning to ask you about something.” Tony says out of the blue, and indicates for FRIDAY to lower the music. 

Peter freezes. 

(His heart doesn’t freeze. It feels like it’s beating too fast for it to be normal. _Thud, thud, thud_ , again and again against the inside of his chest.)

“I’ve been wondering how in the world weren’t you caught? Before the internship, I mean.” Tony curiously asks him.

“What d’you mean?” Peter can practically see himself in Tony’s eyes, shaking nervously like a madman.

(Tony knows, Tony knows, _Tony knows._ ) 

“The dumpster diving. How weren’t you caught? There’s security everywhere in the tower, and that includes the dumpsters. You mentioned they were a, and I quote, ‘gold-mine’, didn’t you?” 

Peter blinks, “ _Oh._ That.” 

It’s a small comfort knowing Tony wasn’t asking about Spider-Man. But, even so, Peter knew that if he slipped up now, he’d most definitively know about his secret. 

“Yeah, that. Care to explain how you got around that?”

Peter swallows, and carefully avoids Tony’s eyes. He keeps fiddling with the Oscorp phone, mentally noting about ten different modifications that he’s sure Tony could do to improve it. It’s while fiddling with the phone that Peter, not-so-subtly, tries to change the topic. 

“Speaking of gold-mines… I’ve been thinking about that book you gave me. You know, the one you wrote? And- uh, I was wondering why you’re still using a gold-titanium alloy? It’s brilliant, don’t get me wrong, but haven’t you figured out how to make the suit stronger after all these years?”

Tony’s eyes light up at the mention of his Iron Man suit, “Oh, trust me, I have been trying out different combinations for years just to see if something other than the gold- wait, no, nope, not happening! I see what you’re doing, and it’s not working. So, spill, kiddo, because we’re not changing the topic.”

Truth was, Peter had avoided the security around the dumpsters using his sixth sense, though he hadn’t known at first that that had been what it was. Still, Peter figures it’ll do him absolutely no good telling Tony that.

(He could see it, clear as day, the way Tony would blink and the way light would shift in his eyes as he figured it out, figured out Peter’s secret.) 

Peter’s eyes flicker up to Tony’s. He shrugs, and tries to play nonchalant when he says, “What d’you want me to say?”

(He could see it, clear as day, the way Tony would scrunch up his nose in disgust, the way Tony would wave his hand in the air as a sign to FRIDAY, shutting down the room.)

“Oh, I don’t know, preferably the truth?” the corners of Tony’s lips are twitching, so Peter knows he isn’t being too serious. Something that had previously felt heavy in Peter’s chest instantly feels lighter, something Peter can’t quite put his finger on.

(He could see it, clear as day, the way Tony would call his armor, the way Tony would apprehend Peter with practiced ease, and fling him away into a void he’d never be able to outclimb.)

Peter tries to smirk, and realizing that Tony isn’t going to press, he tells him this; “Never reveal every trick up your sleeve, Mr. Stark.”

(What he really means, is this; _Never reveal your secrets._ )

 

 

 

 

Peter doesn’t know why, but he finds himself watching the television a lot more now that he’s out on the streets doing what he can to clear the streets of criminals.

(Is it his ego, inflating when watching his own accomplishments on the screen? Or is it something else, something doleful, sizzling, biding its time until it consumes him whole?)

(It’s neither, it’s nothing, he’s okay, he’s well, Peter is alright, good, _fine._ )

It’s pure coincidence that the night after Tony’s conversation with Peter about morals, Peter watches a blurry footage of himself on the television. They’re doing daily reports on Spider-Man, now. It’s a constant debate; is Spider-Man good or dangerous? 

(They, the news outlets, usually decide he’s dangerous. Peter disagrees.)

He’s sitting on the floor in front of the couch with the new in front of him whilst doing his homework and other school related assignments. The news he’s got on is nothing but background noise, something calming and relaxing to help him concentrate. 

“I- uhm- I think he’s conflicted. I don’t think he’s bad.”

Peter’s head shoots up. His eyes widen when the face that fills the screen in front of him is a familiar one.

“No?” the reporter asks him. 

“No,” Kyle shakes his head, “I wouldn’t want to cross him, sure, but I don’t think he’s inherently bad. Just… lost? Yeah, lost.”

“And why is that?” 

“Because…” Kyle takes a deep breath - the bags under his eyes age him, and so does his deep breath, Peter notes – and continues, “Spider-Man has good intentions. At least, I think so. Dude seemed… sad. Kind of. I mean, as sad as you can seem with a mask on, at least. He just needs to… continue to do what he does, yeah? But, he needs to change something. _One_ thing. Leave the killing to the serial killers, Spider-Man. You could do a lotta good if you really wanted to. You’ve already helped me. Help others, too.”

Peter keeps watching the screen, but his mind is stuck on the words uttered by the young boy he’d found outside the warehouse not too long ago.

( _Am I a murderer? Am I? Or am I just lost, like Kyle suggests, lost in a sea full of bereavements and despair?_ )  
  
He looks down at his hands, and when he really looks, really examines them, he sees the color red.

 

 

 

 

That night, when Peter goes off to fight criminals, he doesn’t kill anyone.

He isn’t quite sure what he’s trying to prove to himself by doing that.

( _Leave the killing to the serial killers, Spider-Man._ )

Peter can still feel the anger coursing through his veins, pumping and flowing through him like it always does. Instead of channeling the anger through punches, he channels it by blocking and ducking, teaching himself a different way to fight criminals.

He doesn’t really want to admit that it’s just as effective as his punches, but there’s no denying the evidence; Spider-Man can keep fighting crime without leaving damage behind.

( _Help others, too._ )

The posing question is now this; will Spider-Man keep fighting crime without leaving damage behind? 

(Spider-Man has good intentions. Spider-Man has good intentions. _Spider-Man has good intentions._ )

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was gonna make this chapter longer, but i decided to split it instead, since it makes more sense to post it that way. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed it, and sorry for the wait!! all the comments have been lovely, so thank you so much <3


	6. six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “We’re trying to convince Peter to rejoin the team,” Michelle tells her deadpan, not looking up from the book, “Please join us in our demeaning begging session.”

Days pass him by, and soon, it’s the end of the week. There are still no signs of anything Flash is gonna do. Peter preferred it when Flash openly expressed himself, because at least then, Peter wasn’t looking over his shoulder every minute, waiting for a blow that had yet to come. 

Any other person would’ve thought that the fight was over, due to a number of reasons. But Peter knew better; because even though Flash stays silent, never uttering a single word, there is still his sixth sense. And his senses always go haywire around Flash, these days.

It’s not over. Not yet.

(Fight or flight, fight or flight, _fight or flight._ )

 

 

 

 

At lunchtime, Peter walks swiftly to his newly chosen table. It had taken a bit of time to find the new spot, somewhere secluded and hidden where his old Decathlon teammates would ideally leave him alone.

Only, someone is already sitting in his newly found spot. Peter nearly groans out loud when he sees who it is. 

Peter should’ve known his Parker luck would prevent that from happening.

“Hi!” Ned grins at him and waves his hand enthusiastically. Michelle looks up briefly from the book she’s currently reading and just gives him a nod.

Trying not to sound too rude, Peter politely asks, “I thought your table was over there?”

Michelle raises her brow, “Is my name carved into that specific table?”

“I- uh- no?”

“Exactly.”

Ned, however, seems confused by Michelle’s response, “But MJ, you _did_ carve your name-”

Although he can’t see it, he can hear very clearly Michelle kicking Ned in the shin, effectively shutting him up.

“Well? Are you just going to stand there, or are you going to sit down so you can eat your lunch?”

Peter bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from saying anything he might regret later, and reluctantly sits down opposite to Ned and Michelle.

For the first few minutes, they eat in silence. Peter isn’t quite sure whether the silence is awkward or not. What he is sure of, however, is this; it feels sort of nice to eat with someone else. 

“So,” Ned breaks the silence, and shoves the rest of his sandwich in his mouth. 

“So.” Peter says, and nearly cringes at the awkward tone of his own voice.

“I ‘eard Mr. ‘arringt’n ‘sked-” Ned swallows his food and continues, “- you to rejoin the decathlon team again!”

Michelle scrunches her nose at Ned’s antics, “Swallow before you speak, you pig.” 

Ned ignores Michelle, “Anyways, we were also wondering about that! Because, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing innately _wrong_ with Flash taking up your spot. That’s sort of the point of alternates, though, I suppose-”

“Ned?”

Betty Brant approaches the table shyly, with her hands behind her back and a friendly smile. 

Ned blinks. Peter can see a small drop of sweat trickling from Ned’s hair.

“Uh- hello- hi Betty- I mean, yeah?”

Betty places a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear, “I- uhm- I need a tutor in physics, and Mrs. Warren recommended you. Would you mind…?”

“Oh! No, I don’t mind!” Ned tells her, the tops of his cheeks turning a suspicious shade of pink. Peter lifts his eyebrow.

“Thanks,” Betty smiles relieved, “I was thinking we could meet up by the café near the Daily Bugle? It’s just, I have this newspaper thing after school most days and-”

“Of course!” Ned blurts out before she gets to finish her sentence. 

Michelle catches Peter’s eye and rolls her eyes. _Is this what young love looks like_ , Peter wonders? Awkward and sweaty, with clammy hands hidden at ones back? If so, Peter was slowly beginning to appreciate the fact that his crush on a certain Liz Allan had dissipated the second he was bitten by a radioactive spider. Crushes, gossip, and similar things lost a lot of its appeal after that. 

Ned and Betty grin at each other like dumb idiots, making Michelle snort out loud at their blatant crushes. 

“It is really lucky that Mrs. Warren recommended Ned. Don’t you think, Betty?” she says. 

Betty breaks her eye contact with Ned, and splutters out “W- what?” 

“Lucky. You know, because Ned is _so good_ at _physics_.” Michelle says wryly, and without pressing the matter further, she turns back to the book she was reading.

“Uh- yeah, yeah, really lucky,” Betty coughs, “So. Uhm. What were you guys talking about?” 

“We’re trying to convince Peter to rejoin the team,” Michelle tells her deadpan, not looking up from the book, “Please join us in our demeaning begging session.” 

Her face lights up at this, and she twirls around to look at Peter. Peter shifts in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable because of all the attention he’s being given by his peers.

“Oh, please do, Peter! Like, Flash is nice and all, but he’s no you, that’s for certain-”

“That’s exactly what I said, too!” Ned cuts in, and then they’re all discussing how Flash got nearly all his questions wrong last time they were at a championship competing together.

It’s then, for a fleeting moment, that he wants to say yes to their invite. He wants to be part of something again, part of something inherently good and non-malicious.

Peter opens his mouth, the _yes_ sitting on the tip of his tongue and- 

And then reality pulls him back in, with a tight rope around his neck, suffocating his airways.

 

 

 

 

(When they ask Peter again, he tells them no; though his heart screams, _aches,_ for him to say yes.)

 

 

 

 

“Dum-E, I swear to God, donating you to a city college is not just an empty threat.” Tony tells the bot. The bot is holding a fire-extinguisher, and makes a whirring sound at the mention of being donated. Peter hums bemusedly at the sight. 

“Mr. Stark, you’ve been telling Dum-E that for ages. Your threat is emptier than a hollow shell.”

“Uh-uh-uh! Don’t you get smart with me, Parker, I don’t appreciate that!” Tony points the small medical scanner he’s holding at Peter, waggling it. 

“You literally told me last time I was here that you prefer me being snarky over me being silent. FRIDAY?”

“That is correct, Mr. Parker. Would you like me to play you the recording?”

Peter feels the corners of his lips tug upwards, but before he can say anything, Tony shoots it down.

“You’re not allowed to play the recording,” he says, pointing at the ceiling, “Stop favoring my intern over me, or else I’m donating you alongside Dum-E.”

“Sure thing, boss.”

The snarky tone in which the AI speaks never ceases to amaze Peter. By this point, Peter is entirely sure that FRIDAY could out-snark Michelle Jones. Maybe. At the thought of Michelle, Peter feels a pang of something strange stirring in his chest. He shakes it off (or, at least tries to), and turns to Tony.

“Hey, I know I usually don’t ask… but can I-”

“Sure.” Tony says before Peter can finish his sentence. Peter gapes at him. 

“You didn’t even hear what I was gonna say!”

Tony rolls his eyes and picks up a small tweezer laying on the workbench, “No, I didn’t, but I’m guessing you want to start on some new projects instead of just reworking and rewiring old tech. Right?” 

“Oh. I mean- yeah, that was- that was exactly what I was gonna ask… how’d you know?” Peter stutters out.

“I didn’t know, I just guessed. Hit the nail on the head, though, didn’t I? Damn, I’m pretty amazing. Must be a sixth sense or something,” he answers smugly, giving Peter a knowing look before going back to work on the bionic leg that rests on the worktable.

Peter tenses at the mention of a sixth sense. _Surely, he doesn’t know_ …? Something at the back of Peter’s mind is telling him that he’s being unreasonable and stupid, that he should’ve known that Tony would’ve figured it out.

(It’s the same part of Peter’s brain that draws him into the darkness, into the pit of despair he so desperately wants to climb out of.)

The more reasonable part of Peter’s brain tells him that he’s just overreacting, no one knows, no one can know, he hasn’t told anyone and-

Tony whips his head up, and _shit, this is it, he knows, he knows, he knows-_

“Jesus, kid, stop looking at me like that. It was a joke – I don’t actually have a sixth sense, so stop worrying if I know about your embarrassing crushes or whatever the hell it is that tweens worry about these days.”

Peter lets out a deep breath, and responds with, “Not a tween, _Mr. Stark_.”

“Alright, alright,” Tony puts his hands up in the air, “Not a tween, I get it. So, now that we’ve got that cleared and out of the way – what is it that you want to work on?”

“Uh,” Peter glances down at his bare wrists and feels his heart in his throat when he shakily says, “Liquid bandages. Or, like, more practical bandages? I- that doesn’t make any sense when I say it out loud- but uh, to make bandages more practical, I guess? More… lightweight? No, _compact_ , that’s the word!”

“Hm. Okay. _Liquid_ bandages you say? I’m assuming they’d become solid once utilized, right?”

“Yeah- yeah, that’s right. I’ve been fooling around with the idea in bio class. I think that if you can utilize nylon and mix in some other chemicals the right way, the polymer it’ll create will be strong enough to be used as a bandage. But, y’know, there’s also the toxicity factor that has to be taken into consideration when creating the fluid, which is what I wanna work on.”

“Wait- so you already have the formula for the bandages already?” Tony asks with a scrutinizing look. Peter scratches the back of his head sheepishly. 

“Kind of? It’s- a bit too toxic to be used on wounds at this moment though, since it’s kind of difficult to get all the chemicals I need in school… and the teachers didn’t notice me taking anything so please don’t tell them!” he blurts the last part out. Truth was, Peter had had the ‘bandages’ ready since the first day he went out as Spider-Man. Not that he would tell Tony that. 

Luckily for him, Tony doesn’t seem to care that Peter nicked stuff from his own school. 

“Don’t worry. I have no interest in talking to your teachers,” Tony snorts, “anyways. Let’s get started, shall we?” 

They fall into a comfortable silence with some background music as white noise. Peter is working on improving the formula of his web fluid, mixing and stirring and sampling. Tony seems to be working on a new prototype of the Falcon wings. Which, considering the Falcon is still a fugitive, is slightly odd to Peter.

(He decides not to comment on it.)

Everything is good.

And then the song changes.  

“ _Hey Jude, don’t make it bad-_ ”

And then it isn’t good. Just like that, with the tune of an old song he thought he’d forgotten, Peter feels himself getting pulled away from reality and back into his own mind in a spiral of old memories.

 

( _The disharmonious sound of an inexperienced child playing on the piano could be heard throughout the Parker household. Caught up in his own frustration, Peter smashed down on the piano keys._

_“Baby steps, Peter.” Ben had laughed, wholly amused at Peter’s attempt to learn how to play on the piano._

_“Why can’t I learn the Star Wars theme instead?” Peter whined, “The Beatles are so **old**.”_

_Ben had snorted, “Old? Should I be offended?”_

_“Nah,” Peter grinned, “Can’t get offended over the truth.”_

_“And what, exactly, are you insinuating?” Ben had given him a stern glare, which lost a lot of its power because of the slight smile he was sporting. Peter’s grin widened._

_“There’s no insinuation. You’re old, uncle Ben, is what I’m saying.”_

_“Oh, you cheeky little…!” he had gently placed Peter in a chokehold, and then ruffled up his hair with his fist._

_Peter’s laugh had been more harmonious than the piano had ever been._

_The sun in the sky shone bright, reflecting his smile and heart._ )

 

“Mr. Stark,” Peter spits out. Tony regards him with a lifted brow. 

His head still spins and spins, and just like that day on the rooftop, his mind plays him memories he had long since tried to repress.

“ _-don’t carry the world upon your shoulders-_ ”

 

( _“He still looks sickly, Ben,” May had whispered, unaware of the fact that Peter could hear, feel and see everything, “are you sure he should go back to school like that? One more day at home can’t hurt him, surely.”_

_There had been a moment of silence, before Ben finally conceded._

_“Yeah, you’re right.”_

_Ben had entered Peter’s room without May, and had gently sat down on his bed next to him. Peter could feel his eyes on him._

_“’m sorry for being a problem,” Peter had muttered and avoided Ben’s piercing eyes. Ben had let out a heavy sigh, pulled Peter closer, and then he had begun softly running his fingers through his hair._

_“You’re not a problem, Pete. Never believe that.”_

_“Then why are you so… so…”_

_“What?”_

_“So sad.”_

_Silence._

_“Because I want you to feel better. That’s all.”_

_Shyly, Peter had glanced up at his uncle, “If you play on the piano for me I’ll feel better.”_

_Ben had raised his eyebrow, and had let out a small laugh, “Just because you hate it, doesn’t mean I hate it too, you know.”_

_“Yeah, I know,” Peter had smiled, “jus’ like it when you play for me.”_

_“I thought everything was too loud for you right now?”_

_“Yeah. But music’s never gonna be too loud.” Peter had muttered. It would be nice to have a specific sound to focus on._

_Ben moved from Peter’s bed to the piano, all the while keeping his eyes on Peter. And then he started to play._

_Ben hummed lightly, the words of the song softly rolling off his tongue, as if he was unable to help himself from singing the song._

_“Hey Jude, don’t let me down…”_

_Peter lulled slowly to sleep with the sound of rain against the glass and his uncles mellow humming, happy and blissfully unaware of what had yet to come._ )

 

“ _\- remember to let her into your heart, then you can start to make it better…_ ”

Peter clears his throat, and tries to tone down his aggressive tone when he tells Tony, “Turn that off, please."

The aggressiveness doesn’t leave his voice completely, but the politeness seems to appease Tony somewhat. He flicks his hand, and the song is gone, just like that. 

(Tony may have turned off the song, but it still plays inside Peter’s head.)

( _Take a sad song and make it better, remember to let her under your skin, then you’ll begin to make it, better, better, better, better-_ ) 

(It never gets better. Not really.) 

Peter doesn’t say thank you. At least, not out loud. He just looks Tony in the eyes and gives him a small nod of appreciation.

Tony gets the message and simply smiles.

( _Baby steps, Peter. Baby steps._ )

 

 

 

 

Happy always drops Peter off a block away from where he lives. That’s just as well, Peter figures, because he doesn’t want any unwanted attention from his snoopy neighbors.

Though he’s ashamed to admit it, he always feels better after a few hours with Tony, working on whatever weird contraption Tony wants to work with on that given day. Tony had even taken to mentoring Peter, pointing him in the right direction if he was struggling (which was seldom, but it did happen) or just being flat-out encouraging. Peter couldn’t deny that it was extremely helpful, especially now that Tony is encouraging Peter to work more on his own stuff.

( _Mentoring. When did he go from being just Tony Stark to being my mentor_ , Peter idly wonders.)

He walks the last of his steps towards his block, and fumbles slightly with his keys before finally opening the door. Once inside, he looks at the flight of stairs and sighs. Peter has always wanted to jump from the entrance to the story their apartment is in, mostly because of how convenient it would be. However, he’d long ago decided that the risk of being caught in the act wasn’t worth it. 

Peter treads his way up, the hunger he’s feeling making him move slightly faster.

He’s swift when opening the front door, and speedily takes off his outerwear and backpack. 

The hunger drives him to the kitchen in the search for some food. His stomach rumbles when he sees the usual tupperware on the counter. There’s a note next to the tupperware, and although that’d make Peter’s heart sink to the bottom of his stomach on a normal day, he doesn’t feel that drop when he sees it this time. He grabs the container of food and opens the lid to get a whiff of Emily’s cuisine, and then makes a mental note to thank Emily for her kindness.

(Peter pushes all dark thoughts away; dark thoughts that tell him that if it weren’t for Emily, May wouldn’t survive.) 

He jumps on the countertop with ease, letting his feet dangle lazily. He doesn’t quite know why he’s decided to eat inside today, since he’s made it a habit to eat outside, no matter how bad the weather got. 

(It’s definitely not because he hopes May will get out of her room for once to greet him. No, that’s not it. Not at all.)

Peter can hear the neighbors from where he sits, stumbling and shrieking and talking, never quieting down. He closes his eyes, and tries to see if he can still faintly remember the sound and feeling of complete silence.

(He doesn’t.)

 

 

 

 

Peter doesn’t get to enter his room until late at night; he does his schoolwork on the coffee table, just like how he does most times. To Peter’s utter dismay, it turned out that school work piled up in-between interning and Spider-Manning.

He grabs the last of his papers and books and places it all in his backpack. Once all his stuff is in the backpack, he lets out a heavy sigh of relief.

 _Finally_. 

He practically sprints to his room to pull out his suit, more than ready to swing through the night in search for something to diminish the darkness he can feel growing by the minute.

When Peter enters his room and goes over to his bed, he immediately notices something he’s sure he should’ve noticed much, _much_ , earlier.

There’s something on his windowsill.

From afar, it looks like a dead bug. He disregards it, until he notices the abnormality. The light from his lamp seems to be at an angle where it bounces off of the bug just right. 

Because that’s what makes him realize it isn’t just a dead bug. 

Peter scrunches his eyes. _What the_ …

He gets closer to the window, moving slowly on the tips of his toes. When he gets close enough to touch it, he doesn’t; he just stares at it for a full minute, contemplating his next course of action. 

He grabs the bug.

Peter recognizes the device for what it is immediately.

A recorder. Peter turned it on its back, inspecting it closer. He doesn’t know what to make of the little bug; that is, until he sees the little logo on the butt of the bug. The hollow feeling that so often threatens to swallow him whole returns broadened, filling up more space, taking, taking, _taking_ -

 

_Stark Industries_

 

Tony had been spying on him. Tony had been _fucking_ spying on him, which only meant one thing;

 _Tony knew_. 

Tony knew about Spider-Man, and didn’t say anything. 

(Liar, liar, _liar_.)

Peter crushes the bug with his bare hands, his vision filled with the color red.

Outside, the sky darkens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the wait! i'm just a terribly slow writer, so regarding schedules and stuff, I don't reckon I'll have a regular one for this fic
> 
> ps, this is not beta-ed, so if you find any mistakes, do let me know and i'll fix it! thanks <3

**Author's Note:**

> don't forget to leave a comment if you enjoyed and/or want to scream at me - it fuels my energy, lmao  
> i'm thinking about writing around 6 chapters, but we'll see - i'm terrible when it comes to writing longer fics, so.. we’ll see
> 
> also, if you wanna scream at me on a different platform, my tumblr is buggiesincrowns


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